


The End Is Where We Start From

by mickeym



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death (off-screen), First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when the unthinkable happens, and half your family is torn away from you in the blink of an eye? What do you do when it feels like your whole world has ended? You gather strength from each other, and learn how to start anew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End Is Where We Start From

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the spn_j2_bigbang 2011. Complete notes and thanks at the end of the story, but a couple of things here: The character death happens off-screen, though it's referenced throughout the story, and I changed the timeline. The story is set in 2009, making Sam born in 1993, and Dean in 1989, respectively.

  


 

  
_When one door of happiness closes, another opens, but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us._  
\- Helen Keller

_What we call the beginning is often the end._  
And to make an end is to make a beginning.  
The end is where we start from.  
\- T. S. Eliot

 

****

Prologue

 

It's pretty chilly for early October, and there's too much of that chill hitting him, so Sam rolls his window back up, then zips up his hoodie for good measure. At this rate, they're gonna have snow by Halloween, and wouldn't that suck? Not that Sam trick-or-treats anymore, but it's the _principle_. Any time before December is way too soon to have snow.

Outside the closed window, streetlamps whiz by at dizzying speeds, the by-product of Dad's foot resting heavy on the gas pedal. Mom's fiddling with the radio, and over his mp3 player come the sounds of Dad singing along with—Sam frowns. Johnny Cash?

For the moment it takes the thought to form, Sam aches with missing his brother; misses being able to jostle Dean with his shoulder and make a face, and know that Dean knew exactly what he was making faces about – or vice versa. This isn't even Dean's first year away, but it still sucks almost as much as last year did, and Sam's pretty sure he's never not going to miss having Dean around.

Whatever. Dwelling on it only makes him cranky, and since they're on their way to Buffalo Bob's for BBQ, Sam doesn't want to be cranky. He's reaching for his mp3 player to turn up the volume, when his phone vibrates in his pocket (Dad's rule: no cell phone ring tones during family time). He flips it open and grins, because it's kind of like the universe read his mind and compelled Dean to text him.

_yo, bro. 'sup?_

_dinner w/ rents what r u doing?_

_date 2nite w/ a hottie im gonna get some ;)_

Sam smirks at the text. He can picture Dean's accompanying leer so clearly his brother might as well be sitting beside him.

_does ur bf know? *eg*_

_im telling u now! don’t b jelus sammy_

_it's sam and u wish i was ur bf, you shld b so lucky_

_bite me & you'll alwys b sammy 2 me_

Sam rolls his eyes and decides he's lucky Dean doesn't have the patience to type out something about changing Sam's diapers or something equally embarrassing.

_we're almst @ the restaurant, have fun 2nite and b good_

_im alwys good ;) tell m &d i said hi._

"Dean says to tell you hi," Sam says, after tucking his phone back into his pocket. He turns his mp3 player off and coils the earbuds around it before tucking them into his other pocket. "Said he has a date tonight."

"With Evelyn?" Mom turns slightly to glance at Sam.

"He didn't say. Just said he had a date." Sam shrugs. He's not sure how he feels about Evelyn. She seemed nice enough when they met her while visiting at KSU a few weeks back, but there was something about her that raised his hackles, too. Maybe the way she _hung_ on his brother, like she couldn't stand on her own.

"Are we gonna get the family special? Because I want brisket and ribs, if we don't." It seems like it's been _hours_ since he ate anything, and Sam's ready to devour the whole menu at Buffalo Bob's.

"You growin' again, Sammy?"

Dad sounds amused, and Sam shrugs and shakes his head. "Maybe?"

It would be kind of cool to be taller than Dean. Be the _younger_ brother, rather than the _little_ brother.

Mom sighs and murmurs something about just buying boxes for Sam's feet, instead of shoes, and Sam misses the chance to snark back when his phone vibrates again. He digs it out to check the message. "Eric wants to know if I can spend the night tomorrow night."

"Don't you have band practice tomorrow?" Dad changes lanes in a quick zip, and Sam wonders how it's fair that he can criticize _Sam's_ driving, when he's like a maniac behind the wheel. He's not even really looking at the road now, just frowning at Sam in the rear-view.

"Yeah, we do. So I could just go home with Eric afterward." Which reminds Sam he still needs to give his folks the permission slip for the away-game in three weeks. "They'll bring me home Sunday, on their way to church." Like always. After four years, this really is old hat, and asking permission is pretty much a formality, since he and Eric stay at each other's house at least a couple times a month, if not more.

Dad looks at Mom, gets her nod, then back at Sam in the rear-view, and nods himself. "As long as you plan to help me with the yard work Sunday afternoon."

"And change your sheets before you leave tomorrow morning," Mom adds, before Sam can say anything.

He nods – this is also routine, the 'as long as you do' varying slightly depending on the season, but always something before he goes – and sends a message back to Eric. _they said yes, see u 2moro @10_.

He's just closed his phone when there's a cacophony of blaring horns and squealing tires. Dad shouts something, his voice rough and alarmed, and Sam looks up in time to see a semi-truck coming straight at them.

The last thing Sam hears over the sound of twisting, screeching metal is Mom screaming, and then everything goes dark and quiet around him.

 

~~~~~

 

  
**Chapter One**   


Hospitals are supposed to be busy, full of activity and people bustling around, but it's dead quiet when the doors swish open, and Dean swallows down a wave of nausea at his choice of words. He's pretty sure he's never going to forget the phone call a few hours earlier.

_Dean, it's Gunther. You need to get to Lawrence, son. There's been an accident._

Gunther wouldn't give him details over the phone, which by itself told Dean it's bad. Mike and Ellie wouldn't let him drive himself, Mike insisting that if things were that bad, he would need support. So they piled into Mike's beat-up Toyota, and now he and Ellie are parking the car, after dropping Dean off at the ER entrance.

Gunther is easy to spot, huge and forbidding, his lined face drawn into a frown. If Dean hadn't known the guy for literally all his life, he might be intimidated. He doesn't see Sally, Gunther's wife, but knows she's around somewhere. Gunther wouldn't be down here without her.

"Gunther. Where are they?" He can't see anything, or anyone, and the panic he's managed to mostly shove down is starting to creep back up Dean's throat.

"Easy, son. Hang on a minute." Gunther nods to the woman sitting behind the desk he was standing beside, and she's picking up the phone even as he leads Dean over to a group of chairs. "Sit down."

"I don't want to sit, I've been sitting—where are they?"

"Sam's still in surgery, I think. The nurse is gonna check for us." Dean's never seen this expression on Gunther's face before, and he tries to brace himself.

"Mom and Dad?"

Gunther shakes his head slowly. "I'm sorry, Dean."

It feels kind of like the world falls out from under him, then. Everything slows down, going a little gray around the edges. Dean concentrates on trying to breathe in, out, in, out. He hears a wavery, breathless voice ask, "both of them?"

Hopes that by asking again, the answer will change.

"As I understand it, your daddy—passed—at the scene. Your ma, I'm not sure. Before I got here. That's all I know for certain."

"How?" That can't be his voice, can it? Actually, none of this is really happening, is it? It's just a really bad dream, and he's going to wake up any minute now. Any minute.

"Truck driver fell asleep, lost control of his rig." Gunther settles one hand gently on Dean's shoulder. "Sit down, boy, before you fall down." His voice is just this side of gruff, enough to anchor Dean from floating away. The chair is hard plastic beneath him, but it's solid, unlike his legs.

"How—why'd they call you?"

Gunther settles heavily into the chair beside Dean, familiar scents of tobacco and motor oil rising up. He smells like Dad smells -- _smelled_ \-- and Dean bites down on his tongue to keep the tears back.

"Reckon it's because your daddy had me listed as an emergency contact. Always has done, far as I know." Gunther draws a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. "You drive over by yourself?"

Dean shakes his head. "My roommate and his girlfriend drove me. They're parking the car. Why'd they take Sam into surgery? What's going on with him? Is he gonna be okay? Do you know anything else?"

"Doctors wouldn't tell me much, Dean, since I'm not family. I just know he was busted up pretty good, because they didn't feel they could wait to get him into surgery. You'll have to fill out all the paperwork, once the doctor's come by and talked to you."

Gunther's still talking – Dean can hear the sound, if not the actual words – but nothing's really penetrating. All he can think is, _Mom and Dad are dead? What if I lose Sam, too? God, please let him be all right_ , and feel the words echoing around inside his head.

He's peripherally aware of Sally joining them, a warm, comforting presence beside him, and of Mike and Ellie coming in at some point. Gunther introduces himself and Sally, and Dean lets the low, quiet murmur wash over him as Gunther tells them what's going on. What's happened. Maybe it's the echo, maybe it's hearing it again, but the tears come then, stinging his eyes. Sally pulls Dean into her arms and holds him while he cries on her shoulder.

~~~~~

By the time the sun rises the next morning, Dean feels as though he's aged a hundred years.

Sam's still out, hooked up to more machines than Dean's ever seen in one place at one time. Dr. Peters, Sam's doctor, said they're going to keep him in a medically induced coma until the swelling from the concussion goes down some, and while they wait to make sure they got all the internal bleeding stopped.

"We have him stabilized, and I'm not expecting any complications," the doctor told him while Dean stared at his brother, trying to wrap his head around everything he'd just been told. Concussion. Contusions. Broken ribs. Internal bleeding. But—alive.

After talking with Sam's doctor, Dean had to identify his parents' bodies. Even now, hours later, thinking about it makes his already unsettled stomach shift uneasily, and Dean swallows hard a couple of times. Sally and Gunther left around five to go ready the shop to open, but Mike and Ellie are still there, taking turns sitting with Dean, or fetching more coffee for all of them.

"Dean, is there anything you want me to do?" Ellie's soft voice pulls him out of his thoughts, and Dean shrugs helplessly.

"I don't have a clue what needs to be done," he says, looking out the window at the clear sky and bright sun. As waiting areas go, it's not a bad one. The couches and chairs are soft, and one of Sam's nurses brought him a pillow and blanket at some point last night. There are several windows, and the walls are painted a soothing light green. It'd be a great room to just hang in, if it wasn't the waiting room for the freaking Intensive Care Unit.

It's almost time for visitation again; he's been watching the clock, chaffing at the 'no visitation between 6:30a and 9:00a for shift change' restriction. "I guess I need to go home and see if I can find Dad's—if I can find all the legal papers." Would they be at the house? Or is there someone else he needs to see, like, do his parents have an attorney? God, this is nuts. "This is the universe laughing at me." Dean twists his mouth into something like a smile when Ellie frowns at him. "This year, when the school year started, I remember telling Dad he didn't need to worry about me anymore, because I was all grown up and could take care of shit myself."

Ellie huffs out a breath. "I don't think there's a college student alive who hasn't said something like that to their parents. I told my mom something similar just last week, on the phone." She pats his back gently. "Why don't you try napping for a little while, and I'll make up a list of things I think you might need to do."

"You don't mind?" Dean's not sure he's going to be able to sleep – at least, not until Sam's up and around – but _not_ having to focus on all the thousand-plus things that are gonna need to be done, that sounds kind of like heaven.

"I wouldn't have offered if I minded, you goof." Ellie points toward the doorway. "Go in and check on him, then come back here and take a nap. While you're doing that, I'll get to work with my magic powers of organization." She wiggles her fingers, and Dean smiles.

"Thanks, El. I don't know what I'd do without you and Mike here."

She's already digging in her shoulder bag for paper and a pen, but she gives Dean a smile. "Go. Shoo."

"Going already, geez." He bites down on the 'Mom' he almost added, and that trickle of pain winds its way through the numbness that's all he's felt since late last night.

~~~~~

"Dean? Dean, you should wake up."

He's only been asleep for a minute or two, he's sure of it, and the room wobbles and blurs until he rubs at his eyes. Even then everything still seems to have a bit of a softer focus than usual to it. Ellie's standing beside the chair he fell asleep in. "Ellie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. At least nothing new." She hands Dean a steaming cup. "Good news is, Mike stopped by your dad's shop, and Gunther gave him some papers that were in the lock-box there. Copies of some of your dad's legal stuff, I guess."

He takes a cautious swallow. Not cafeteria coffee; probably from the Beanery up the street. Lots of sugar – always a good thing. Another swallow, and Dean looks around. "Sammy?"

Ellie shakes her head. "It's visiting time again in a few minutes; that's why I woke you up."

"Has the doctor been by yet?"

She shakes her head again. "I don't think so. I haven't seen him go by, at least. I stepped out for a little bit, went to get some coffee, and to call my mom and Mike's folks, but I wasn't gone very long." She fishes a piece of paper out of her purse and hands it over Dean. "You don't have to do these in the listed order; I just wrote things down as I thought of them."

"Oh—right." He's only glanced down at it, but he's pretty sure it's a list he doesn't want to have to read over. Looking at it more carefully confirms that.

_Read over legal papers._   
_Make funeral/memorial arrangements._   
_Make arrangements for when Sam's released._   
_Find contact info for insurance company (life, auto)._   
_Check about health insurance stuff._   
_Find contact info for attorney._   
_Follow up with police dept (Ellie has ph#)_   
_Contact Sam's school._   
_Contact Dean's school._   
_Newspaper re: obits?_   
_Check w/ bank re: funds to keep bills going, etc._

"Geez, that's a long list, El." He feels nauseous again, so Dean takes another long pull at his coffee, hoping that will help.

"I know it is, but it's all stuff that you'll need to do sooner or later – some of it sooner than others." She frowns. "I told my mom what happened, Dean. She wanted me to give you her condolences, and to tell you to let her know if there's anything she can do for you."

"Thanks, Ellie. Really. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have thought of all of this." He glances up at the clock and drapes the blanket over the back of the chair beside him. "I'm gonna go check on Sam. I really wish he'd wake up."

"You remember the doctor said he was keeping Sam in a medically-induced coma, right? He won't wake up until the doctor takes him off the medication."

"Oh—right." So many things to remember. Dean thinks his head might explode.

"Look, it's nearly one." Ellie tips her head toward the door. "Go on and check in on Sam, and then we'll head out. I told Mike we'd meet him for lunch at the sandwich shop across the street. We can go over your list, and make some phone calls while we eat."

"I can't leave Sam." Dean shakes his head. "If something happens—"

"We'll tell them at the nurses' desk on our way out, and give them both our numbers, okay? Nothing's going to happen in an hour or so, and you have the number to call if you feel like you need to."

Dean remembers when he used to think nothing would happen in the blink of an eye, but not anymore. Still, he follows Ellie slowly out of the room and down the quiet hall. While other parts of the hospital might be bustling with activity, the ICU is fairly quiet. It's a little unnerving, actually, so much silence here.

Sam looks just as he did a few hours ago, so pale and still in his bed, the bruises around his eyes and across his cheeks the only color around him. His chest rises and falls steadily, driven by the ventilator, soft hisses from the machine underscoring the beeps of other machines.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says softly, reaching to pick up Sam's hand. Sam's other hand has the IV tubing snaking down from it, and Dean's afraid to touch that hand. He doesn't want to jostle anything, and hurt his brother. "You need to get better and wake up, man. I can't deal with all this shit on my own. C'mon, Sam. Just—wake up, okay? Please."

There's no response, but Dean didn't expect one. He smoothes Sam's hair back off his forehead and brushes a gentle kiss across it. Ellie watches from the doorway, radiating concern.

He's only allowed in with Sam for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, so Dean gives Sam's hand a gentle squeeze, adjusts the blankets, then follows Ellie out of the room. They stop at the nurse's station to leave instructions to call Dean's cell if there's any change, then head down the hallway toward the elevator.

"What day is today?" He asks, as they exit the hospital, out into the bright, cool day. The sun's bright, and Dean squints, wondering where he left his sunglasses.

"It's Saturday. Why?"

"Crap." Dean stops and frowns. "Saturdays—shit, Sam has band practice on Saturdays." At least he's pretty sure he remembers Sam telling him they were doing Saturday practices this year, since there was a better-than-average chance of going to the state finals. "I'm gonna have to find Eric's number, and let him know what happened, too."

"Do you want to go—" Ellie frowns. "We could drive over to the school, if you want?"

"Nah. I don't know how long practice lasts. I know Eric's number is on the list on the fridge. I'll call his house later. He'll want to come up and see Sam, once Sam's—up. Awake."

Ellie nods, then points to where Mike's standing in front of the sandwich place – Barry's Burgers, the sign proudly proclaims – waving at them.

Inside the shop – Mike disappeared as soon as Dean and Ellie started across the street – it's warm, and the air is full of the scents of grilling meat, and the sounds of sizzling heard over the murmur of conversation. It's not super busy, since it's not lunch hour anymore, so they only wait a few minutes for burgers and plates piled high with fries. Dean manages half of his burger before his stomach rumbles unhappily and he pushes his plate away.

"Gimme the papers," he says to Mike, and then, "you want the rest of my fries?"

"Yeah." Mike hands over a manila folder with one hand, and pulls Dean's plate toward him with the other.

Inside is a sheaf of legal papers, and a couple of business cards, and what look like copies of insurance policies. One of them is for the policy on the shop; Dean sets that aside without looking at it. Anything to do with the shop he can defer for now, because Gunther will keep it going while Dean settles everything else. The health insurance policy gets passed over in favor of life insurance papers, and Dean's eyes pop open wide. Five hundred thousand dollars? Holy shit.

"Guess I don't have to worry about buying groceries," he mutters, then blinks the sting of tears away. He would so rather have his Mom and Dad, instead of an insurance policy payout.

"Are there copies of their wills in there?" Ellie pushes her plate away. "That will probably have information on, um. Burial stuff."

As it turns out, Ellie's right. He skims over the copy of their will that was obviously kept updated since it names him as guardian for Sam, as he's reached his legal majority. There's stuff in there too about division of estate if it's deemed necessary, and what particular pieces go to whom, along with a lot of legalese that makes his eyes glaze over. At the bottom of the stack of papers, though, is an envelope with a receipt, a pamphlet, and a print-out in it from Warren McElwain Mortuary and Crematory. Dean swallows heavily a few times before he's sure his burger is going to stay put, then he opens the envelope and reads over the details his folks set down years ago – nearly ten, going by the date on the print-out – for their funerals.

"They want to be cremated," he tells Mike and Ellie as he skims the papers. "But they also bought a small plot at Oak Lawn cemetery, for a headstone. That's where my dad's parents are buried, so I guess they wanted to be near them."

"Do you want to have a memorial service for them?" Mike's still picking at his fries, and Dean kind of envies him. He wishes he could eat, too, but even as good as his burger smelled, it tasted kind of like nothing in his mouth.

"I don't know. I'm gonna—wait for Sam. Talk to him about it." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. "What time is it?"

"A little before two. You want to get back?"

"Yeah." He feels antsy, being this far away from Sam for as long as it's been.

Mikes nods. "Gunther said to call him later, and to let you know he and Sally could come down and sit with you, or spell you."

"Okay. Yeah." Dean's glad other people are thinking about these things – these things that all seem so logical – because he's not sure he's processing anything other than autopilot.

~~~~~

The nurse at the desk tells Dean that Sam's doctor will be coming by about six, and depending on how he's doing, there's a good chance he'll take Sam off the meds that are keeping him asleep. Dean calls Gunther to let him know, then waves Mike and Ellie off to his house to get some sleep. He settles into the chair beside Sam's bed with Ellie's list and the legal papers, and a notepad to make some notes of his own. As long as he's quiet, maybe the nurses will let him stay longer than fifteen minutes at a time.

The blinds on the window are closed against the late-afternoon sun, so it's fairly dim in the room, and cool enough that Dean's grateful for the sweatshirt he has on. He shifts around to get comfortable, then looks at his brother. Dean's pretty sure he hasn't seen Sam this quiet and still _ever_. It's eerie, actually. He stretches forward and brushes Sam's hair back off his forehead, careful not to touch any of the bruises, or the small bandage on his temple, probably covering up yet more stitches.

"You look like you went a couple rounds with a prize-fighter, Sammy," he murmurs. "But don't worry, kiddo. I'll take care of you. You got nothin' to worry about, okay? I promise. You just work on getting better, and leave the rest to me."

He feels a little silly talking to someone who can't answer him back, but it makes him feel better. He squeezes Sam's unresponsive fingers, then leans back in the chair to contemplate his list. So many phone calls to make, and decisions to come to. How's he supposed to decide some of this stuff? What if he makes the wrong choices?

There's a business card attached to Dad's will, so Dean writes the number down on his list; he'll have to call them Monday. He'll have to call the registrar's office Monday, too, and withdraw for the semester, because there's no way he's going to be able to do everything he needs to do, and help Sam, and stay in school. He's going to have to see about transferring his classes to a local school, too. Unless Sam wants to move—and then they'd have to decide about selling the house—

"Jesus. I take it all back."

"Take what back?" Gunther's voice is pitched low, but still makes Dean jerk in surprise. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay." Dean looks at his watch. It's a few minutes before six. "And I take back everything I ever said about wanting to be an adult."

Gunther gives him a small smile. "It's usually something you get to grow into. You kind of got it all dumped on you."

"Yeah."

Dr. Peters comes in then, a nurse following behind him. She has another IV bag she hangs on the pole beside Sam's bed. Dr. Peters gives Dean and Gunther both a nod, then opens the chart he's holding. He makes a couple of notes, checks Sam's bandages, looks in his eyes. Dean watches as he palpates Sam's abdomen gently, then lifts the catheter bag to check it. It's tinged dark pink. The doctor frowns and palpates Sam's belly again, his frown deepening.

"What's wrong?" Dean doesn't like that frown.

"He's started running a fever, and it looks as though there's still some bleeding."

"Internally?" Dean swallows roughly. "He's—is he okay? Does he need more surgery?"

Dr. Peters shakes his head. "Not right this minute, but we're going to monitor him closely for the next little while." He sighs. "Your brother suffered major trauma, Dean. We repaired the internal injuries we could see, but it's not impossible that we missed something. Also, some things his body just needs to heal itself—"

"He looks like he's peeing blood!"

"Kidneys are pretty fragile things; it doesn't take much to bruise them, or make them bleed a bit. Right now it's just something we need to keep an eye on. He's in serious condition, but he's also healthy and young. We'll do all we can for him, to help him do the rest. I'm going to keep him sedated for now, and we'll see how he's doing tomorrow. If the bleeding has stopped, and his fever is down, we'll wake him up."

"So he's—he's not gonna—"

Dr. Peters gives Dean a gentle smile, and Dean feels Gunther's hand come down on his shoulder. "He's not going to die, no. Like I said, he's in serious condition, but he's stable, and I'm not anticipating that changing."

"Okay. Good."

"You should go home and get some sleep. Sam's not going to notice if you're here or not." There's more than a hint of suggestion in that, and Dean sighs.

"I don't want to leave him. I—he's all I have left, doc. I can't—if anything happens to him—" His throat closes up and Dean can't force any more words past it.

"I understand that, but you're not going to be any help to him if you make yourself sick from lack of sleep."

Dean's all ready to argue, and then Gunther says, "What if I stay here for a while, so you can go home, have a shower and catch a nap? I can call you if there's any change, and the doctor's right, Dean, you ain't gonna be any use to anybody if you don't get some shut-eye."

"You don't mind?"

Gunther scowls. "You boys are family. 'Course I don't mind."

Dean's not convinced he'll be able to sleep once he gets home, but a shower would feel good, and he's been in the same clothes for two days, now. He nods. "I guess I'll call Mike, tell him to come get me."

Dr. Peters nods. "Good. I'll see you later, then, Dean. Mr. Andrews."

They answer, or at least Dean thinks he does. He's still staring down at Sam, wishing his brother would just wake up, eyes shining and dimples showing, wide mouth smiling up at Dean.

"C'mon, Dean. Off you go." Gunther jingles some keys in his direction. "Don't bother Mike. Take the Charger, and we'll juggle cars tomorrow." He frowns when Dean just looks at him. "You need a shower, and you need some sleep in a real bed. I'll call you if anything comes up. Charger's out in the visitor's lot, not in the parking garage."

"Right. Okay. But call me—"

"Go. Home." Gunther glowers at him, so Dean just nods and goes.

~~~~~

The house looks just the same as it ever has, though Dean isn't sure why he thought it might look different. He sits in Gunther's Charger, listening to the engine tick over as it cools, and just stares for long, long minutes. The garage door is closed, but behind it is Dad's Impala; they were driving Mom's Honda last night. Dean wonders if the outcome of the accident would've been different if they'd been in the Impala.

Doesn't really matter now, though.

Cool air buffets him when he steps out of the car, and it carries a hint of rain in it. Won't be too much longer before it's snow, which will mean holidays—

Dean shuts that train of thought down before it can go any further. He absolutely can't deal with that right now.

Inside the house looks just the same, too, and there are the obvious signs of a family that was expecting to be home after just a couple of hours: a laundry basket with folded clothes sitting beside the staircase, waiting to be carried upstairs. A pile of mail on the table beside the front door, clearly brought in but not sorted through. Sam's backpack, clarinet case, and grungy gym shoes dropped on the floor beside the hall tree, with Dad's work boots leaning against the pack.

Mike's crashed out on the couch, so Dean makes his way quietly through to the kitchen. There's a note on the table in his dad's handwriting, telling his mom he'd be home about six and how about dinner out? A newspaper is folded haphazardly, half finished cross-word puzzle facing up, and set to one side, with an empty coffee cup on top of it. There's also a notepad with the grocery list in his mom's handwriting, and a note at the top of the list that says, _need more oj, mom_.

Mom's coupon box is on the table as well, and Dean doesn't even need to close his eyes to picture her sitting there, box open while she clips out coupons from the ads in the paper and makes her notes for the grocery list.

He's never going to see his mom or dad again, and that thought is like ice water moving through him.

Ellie is asleep on the bed in what used to be Dean's room, and there's not a chance in hell he's going to be able to sleep in his parents' room, which leaves Sam's room.

It's almost meticulously neat – the giant freak – except for his desk, which has Sam's computer, a chem text, two notebooks, a sheaf of sheet music, and a bright pink post-it note that says, _Call Chandler about tutoring, 785-2332 after 7p._ Dean wonders who Chandler is, and if the tutoring is for him, or from him. He has trouble imagining his brainiac brother needing tutoring in anything.

Sam has a bulletin board on his wall, ribbons won from band competitions and soccer games stuck up there with push-pins. He has a Harry Potter poster on one wall, and one of the Dallas Cowboys on another, side-by-side with a poster that's a map of the solar system. When Dean closes the door behind him he sees the periodical elements chart that's hung there since Sam was in the fifth grade. He's willing to bet if he turns the lights off and lays on Sam's bed the constellations he and Sam made on the ceiling with glow-in-the-dark stars will still be there.

The ache Dean feels, missing his brother and wanting him _right here right now_ , is a physical thing that threatens to overwhelm him, and he's struck then by an almost desperate need to see those constellations; to prove to himself that some things haven't changed – or worse, ended. Dean toes his sneakers off and switches off the overhead light. With the curtains still drawn, he tosses himself down onto Sam's unmade bed. The sheets and pillows smell like the shampoo and bodywash Sam likes, and the fainter tease of aftershave and sweat, and Dean pulls in a deep breath, letting the scent settle him.

Tomorrow they'll wake Sam up. Hopefully. Definitely. Dean can't fathom having to deal with any of this any longer without Sam. He needs his brother. Yeah, he's the oldest – he's the fucking _adult_ in the family now – but he and Sam have always been united, been a team. It's always been them together, and right now Dean feels like he's drowning. He needs his brother. Sooner, rather than later.

He stares up at glow-in-the-dark stars and thinks _tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow_ until he falls asleep.

 

  


 

 

 

  
**Chapter Two**   


He's aware of things slowly. The first thing is: he hurts, everywhere. There are noises around him he doesn't recognize, a symphony of beeps and swooshing sounds, and people speaking all at once. Everything seems soft, kind of out of focus, like he's dreaming it.

The first thing Sam sees when he manages to open his eyes, is his brother. Dean's sitting beside him -- _where am I?_ \-- frowning. He looks pale and tired, but the minute he notices Sam looking at him he perks up, the frown changing over to a smile. Sam opens his mouth and gags on the tube that's down his throat. That makes him jump, panicked, and Dean squeezes his hand.

"Easy, Sammy. Hang on, they gotta take the tube out."

'They' move into his line of sight then, a man and a woman, talking to each other as they fuss and fiddle with things Sam can't see.

The man says, "Sam, I'm Dr. Peters. I'm going to take the tube out for you. I want you to take a deep breath for me, and I'm going to count to three. When I pull on the tube, blow out, like you're blowing out birthday candles. Okay?"

Sam nods and tries to pull in a deep breath. He shudders and coughs as the doctor pulls the tube up and out, leaving his throat burning behind it. He coughs some more, wincing when it makes the rest of him hurt even more.

"Water?" He manages, the word coming out as a hoarse croak. The nurse is there in an instant, holding a straw up to his mouth. The water is cool and soothing going down and Sam takes the cup she's holding and sips at it eagerly. It still hurts to swallow, but not as badly as it did.

"Do you know where you are, Sam?" The doctor – Peters? Sam thinks that's what he said – leans in to listen to his chest. Dean squeezes his hand again. "Sammy?"

"…hospital." The word still comes out as a croak. A painful croak.

"That's right. Do you remember what happened?" Dr. Peters pushes the blankets down and begins gently pushing at various spots on Sam's abdomen.

Another drink of water. "I—there was a truck. I think?" He frowns up at the doctor, then at Dean, eyes going wide. "Accident! It hit us, the truck hit us. Dean--Mom and Dad?"

"In a minute, Sammy." Dean's smile changes, tightens up, shifts back into a frown, and Sam feels dread move through him, icy-cold and swelling, making his chest tight and his throat ache for a different reason. "Soon as the doc's done checking you over."

That can't be a good sign. It just can't be. If their parents were okay, Dean would say so, not make him wait. Right? Or maybe there's something else going on, like they're in the hospital too? He wishes he could remember better what happened. He was texting…in the car, they were all in the car going…where? Dinner. They were going to dinner and then there was a truck—but it all goes blank after that.

"What time is it? Is it Saturday? I have to call Eric, tell him I won't be at practice—Ow!" Sam glares at the doctor.

"Sorry," is the mild response. "I just need to be sure everything's healing up. Does it hurt here?" He presses a little lower.

"It hurts everywhere," Sam says, gritting his teeth. He wants his parents, or at least to know where they are and how they're doing, and he wants Dean to smile again, and he really wants to be on the practice field, getting ready for next month's competition. He doesn't want to be in a hospital bed, aching from head to toe.

"We'll get you something for the pain in just a minute." The doctor nods toward the nurse. "Nothing but clear liquids for twenty-four hours, while we see how he tolerates those. We'll go from there."

"What _day_ is it?" Sam asks, a little desperately. "Dean?"

"It's Thursday, Sammy," he says quietly, and squeezes Sam's hand again. "I've already talked to Eric. Just chill for a few more minutes, okay?"

_Thursday_? That's—he's missing a whole week?

"Well, it appears everything's holding together," Dr. Peters says, stepping back from the bed, and turning to include Dean. "His fever's completely gone, and while he's going to have some pain from the surgeries, I'm not finding anything to indicate any continued internal bleeding. I'm sorry we had to do it, but it looks like removing the spleen was the right call. You're probably going to hurt for awhile, Sam," he turns back toward Sam. "You've been through a pretty severe trauma. But we'll have you fixed up and ready to go again before you know it. And we'll be transferring you down to a general ward in the next few hours; you don't need the ICU any longer."

Dean looks relieved at that. "How much longer is he going to be in the hospital, Doc?"

"It's hard to say for sure; at least a couple more days. We need to make sure there aren't any further complications, and that his pain is managed and he can tolerate food. Let's just take it one step at a time. We'll see where we're at on Saturday."

"Okay." Dean nods.

"The nurse will be back in with some more medication for the pain, Sam, and I'll be back later tonight to see how you're doing."

Sam nods, and manages to wait until the doctor's out of the room, the nurse following behind him, murmuring in response to whatever orders the doctor is giving, before he turns back to stare at Dean. "Surgeries?" he asks finally, shifting gingerly. "More than one?"

Dean sighs. "You had internal bleeding, dude. They thought they got it – you were in emergency surgery when I got here Friday night – but then you spiked a temp and started bleeding again, so yeah. Back into surgery. I thought, for a little while—" Dean cuts himself off and shakes his head. "Sunday and Monday were pretty rough, kiddo."

"And Mom and Dad?" The panic is back, clawing at his chest and throat, and Sam swallows against it. "Dean, where are mom and dad?"

"They—dammit." Dean's voice turns rough, harsh, like he's the one who had the tube down his throat. "They're both gone, Sammy."

"Gone—" No. No way is Dean saying what Sam thinks he's saying.

"Dead." Dean raises his free hand up to wipe at his eyes. "Dad—was dead at the scene, and Mom. Died on the way to the hospital. You were in pretty bad shape; they couldn't wait for me to get here to get you in to surgery."

Dead? Both of them? Sam shakes his head. No. He can't believe what Dean's saying, because that means they're _gone_ , and just, no. "They're not—they can't be—"

"I'm sorry, Sam. I really—wish. Wish you didn't—"

"No! You're wrong—you have to be wrong. They can't be gone! I need them, we need them, they're not—No, Dean. No. Please, no—" Sam breaks off, throat closing up against any other words. He shakes as the sobs come, and when Dean shifts around so he can hold Sam close, Sam goes, burrowing as far inside the safe circle of Dean's arms as he can get, clinging to his brother like Dean's a lifeline.

~~~~~

"Hey, sleepyhead. Wake up, Sammy." Dean's fingers dance over Sam's forehead, and he knows even without opening his eyes that his brother is pushing the hair back from his eyes. "C'mon, you big faker. They're gonna give you a change of scenery in a few minutes, move you down to a different room."

"'M not faking." He opens his eyes, though, and blinks a few times. "God, I hate crying," he mutters, and hears Dean snort. "How long did I sleep?"

"Hour or two? I don't know. The nurse came back and stuck something in your IV, and you went out pretty fast after that. How you doin'?"

"Just peachy." Sam stares at the IV taped to his hand. "I didn't—dream that, did I?" He's hoping so hard that Dean will just say 'yes' that he's actually surprised when his brother shakes his head.

"Sorry."

"Yeah." Sam rubs his eyes – he's _not_ crying again, dammit – and gives his brother a small smile. "How did you—find out? Who called you?"

"Gunther." Dean stands up when the nurses – one male, one female – come in. "Dad had him down for Emergency Contact. I got here a couple hours after the accident." He steps back to make room for the nurses to do whatever it is they're doing to get Sam and his bed mobile, tucking things in and hooking things onto the bed itself. "He's been here every day, checking in on us, helping me get stuff done."

"Okay, Sam, I'm Tyler and this is Angie. We're going to take you to your new room now, so just relax back and let us do the driving, okay?"

"Please keep arms and legs in the vehicle at all times—" Angie breaks off with a grin and Sam gives them both a smile. Dean laughs.

"Have you seen this kid? He's _all_ arms and legs."

Sam shoots him a glare. "I'm taller than you now, too."

"In your dreams, Sammy."

"No, really. Just ask Mo—" Sam breaks off, his bit of good mood vanishing instantly. Tyler and Angie give him sympathetic looks, and Dean reaches over and pats his arm. "It's cool, Sam."

It just hurts so damn much. Sam's not sure a body is meant to feel something like this.

Tyler clears his throat. "Okay, kids, let's get this show on the road, shall we? I might be young and beautiful right now, but I'm getting older and beauty fades."

Sam nods, then twists – or tries to – as they move the bed and he loses sight of Dean. He clamps down on the sound that wants out when something inside him burns hot and sharp, and calls, "Dean!"

"I'm right here, Sam. I'm following you guys, right behind you all the way, okay?"

"Okay."

It's hard, though, not seeing him, and Dean must sense that because he starts talking, telling Sam about all the calls he's made the last few days: schools, friends, an attorney, the insurance agent. "Your teachers told me to let them know when you're out of the hospital and they'll figure out something for homework, though with your big brain I don't know why they're worried about it."

"Funny." Sam bites his lower lip. "What about you? Don't you have school stuff you'll have to make up? How're you going to do that and be here? You're staying, aren't you?" _Don't go and leave me all alone._

"Hey." They stop to wait for an elevator, and Dean appears beside Sam's bed. "I'm not goin' anywhere, Sam. Promise." He shrugs. "I called and talked to the Admissions office, and I'm withdrawing for this semester. I'll probably end up transferring to a school here in town."

"Sucks you have to drop out."

"Well, yeah. But it's okay. It'll all work out in the end, one way or another."

For the first time since opening his eyes earlier – god, it's only been a few hours! – Sam realizes his brother looks _older_. Older, and tired, eyes shadowed with too much responsibility way too fast. He frowns and reaches out grab Dean's hand, giving it a quick squeeze before he's being wheeled into the elevator.

Sam groans when the elevator bumps them as it comes to a stop, and Angie frowns. "Pain?"

"Pretty much yeah, everywhere," he says. "Not as bad as earlier, but starting to hurt again."

"We'll get you settled, and get you some more meds," she tells him. "We'll get you some Kool-aid and broth, too."

"Kool-aid?" Dean raises an eyebrow. "He can have that?"

She shrugs. "It's a clear liquid, it's sweet—would you rather have apple juice, Sam?"

"Nah. Kool-aid's fine. Just, no purple, okay?"

"You don't like the grape?" Tyler's pretty good at backing through the door, swinging the bed slowly as they go.

"He doesn't like purple. Traumatic experience with Barney when he was in pre-school. Gosh, Sam, it's already been a year, hasn't it?"

"Bite me. Contrary to what you might think, Dean, you're _not_ funny." Sam turns to Tyler. "No, I don't like grape. Not if I have a choice. And it has nothing to do with Barney." He glares at Dean. "Jerk."

"Yeah, but you love me." Dean waits until the bed is positioned, locked, and Sam's settled, then asks, "You feel up to company? Eric's been calling every day to check on you. I told him once you were awake he could probably come up and visit."

"Yeah, I'd love to see him—and Gunther, too."

"Gunther'll be in after the shop closes, around seven."

"Good." Sam watches while Tyler and Angie move around him, checking his vitals and IV bag, and—"Oh, god. Is that a catheter?" He feels the blush heat up his cheeks, and it only increases when Angie nods.

"Once you're able to get up they'll take the cath out, but it was necessary while you were sedated."

"Meanwhile, don't mess with it," Tyler says, and Sam and Dean shudder at the same time, and Sam says very emphatically, "no worries there."

Sam drowses while he waits for more pain meds, and the promised broth and Kool-aid. He's not hungry, exactly, but Kool-aid sounds good. His throat is still scratchy and sore. Dean's on his phone, and Sam lets the quiet sound of his voice lull him, drifting on low rumble as easily as when he had chicken pox and only his brother could settle him.

~~~~~

While it's mind-blowing to realize he's missing a week of time, being awake, Sam decides, isn't all it's cracked up to be. It seems like time is slowing down, moving backwards.

Dean calls Mrs. Westerly to let her know Sam's awake, and that he'd like to see Eric if she would bring him up to the hospital. Then he calls Gunther to tell him the same, and Sam has to smile when he hears Gunther's voice echoing over the cell phone speaker, telling him it's about damn time he got his ass up.

He's trying to doze, restless and achy in spite of the pain meds, but every time he closes his eyes all Sam can think about is Mom and Dad, gone. Dean's paging through a magazine beside him, humming tunelessly under his breath, and Sam tries to focus on that. He's nearly nodded off when there's a knock on the door, and Eric's peering in, smiling faintly behind a bunch of balloons cheerily proclaiming, "Get Well Soon!", and a bouquet of bright flowers.

"Can I come in?"

"God, yes." Sam tries shifting and groans when everything inside him screams. Dean's there immediately, pushing the buttons to get the bed moving so Sam's sitting more upright. "Man, it's good to see you."

Eric reaches out and hugs Sam gently, obviously mindful of the IV tubing, and Sam's incisions. "I'm so sorry about your parents, Sam, Dean." He nods at Dean, then looks back at Sam. "I tried texting you, and then calling you Saturday when you didn't show up for practice, and Mr. Foster tried calling your mom's cell—"

"Hey, Eric. You want the chair?" Dean stands up and stretches, then gives Sam a quick…well, caress, is all Sam can call it. Fingers brushing across his forehead gently. "I'm gonna go get a soda, Sam, and grab a burger, okay?"

"You'll be right back, right?"

"Yeah. And Eric's got my number. You need me, have him call, okay?"

"Okay." Sam swallows uneasily as Dean heads out of his room, and gives Eric a tired smile. "You told Mr. Foster where I am, right?"

Eric settles into Dean's vacated chair after putting the flowers on the table beside Sam's bed. He has an envelope in his hands that he fiddles with. "I think Dean did. I mean, I know he did, because I gave him Mr. Foster's phone number. Mr. Foster brought it up in band Monday morning, and, well—here."

He thrusts the envelope toward Sam.

Inside the envelope are two smaller envelopes. The first one Sam opens is addressed to both him and Dean, and is a light blue and white card that reads, "With Sympathy". On the inside it says, "Thinking of you and wishing you peace and comfort." It's signed by Eric and his parents, and Sam's eyes sting with tears at the note Mrs. Westerly added at the bottom: "Boys, please know that you're in our thoughts and our prayers. If you need anything at all, any time at all, don't hesitate to call."

Sam sniffles. "Tell your mom I said thanks, okay?"

Eric nods. "I will. Or you can tell her; she'll be here in a few minutes to get me."

"Okay." He sniffles again and sets that card aside. The other one is addressed just to him, and the card inside says "Never Underestimate the Healing Power of Hope, the Loving Power of Friends." It's signed with different colors of ink, different messages that range from "thinking of you" to "feel better!", and everything in between, and just scanning it quickly Sam's pretty sure every member of the marching band signed it, including Mr. Foster.

He can't blink the tears away this time, and Sam's still crying when there's a soft knock on the door and Eric's mom comes in.

"Oh, honey," is all she says, and then she sits on the side of his bed and holds him while he cries. Somewhere inside his head Sam's horrified at losing it like this in front of, well, everyone. He feels like he's half out of his mind with pain and drugs, and he's afraid he might never be able to stop crying. That this will never end.

At some point someone opens the door, but Sam can't see through his tears, doesn't know if someone's coming in or going out, and he doesn't care.

"I j-just want it to stop h-h-hurting," he sobs, and Mrs. Westerly pats his back.

"I know, honey. I wish I could do that for you."

He wishes she could, too.

There's more activity around him, around them; Dean's voice hushed and low mingling with Mrs. Westerly's, and someone else's, and then warmth spreads through him slow but steady, and Sam's sobs taper off as the world goes fuzzy and soft around him. He hears Dean talking, hears the other voices, but can't connect them anymore. He's so sleepy now, everything warm and heavy. From far, far away he feels the warmth of Dean's hand stroking his hair back from his face, and hears Dean sigh.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam. We're gonna be okay."

"Don't—promise me," he slurs, tongue thick as sleep closes in on him. "P-promise me, don't leave me. Stay here…."

"Not goin' anywhere, Sammy. I promise, I'm not gonna leave you."

~~~~~

It's quiet in Sam's room – too quiet. Dean walked Gunther out a little while ago, saying he was going to get some coffee and then he'd be back. Sam wants him back here, now. As long as Dean's here, and talking, Sam doesn't have to think about the week he's missing, or the accident, or the fact that Mom and Dad are gone.

Gone. He's never going to get to give Mom a kiss and a hug before leaving for school again. Or argue with Dad about the best way to mow a lawn. There won't be any more family dinners, or Mom and Dad embarrassing him by being mushy in public. He'll never get to see his parents' eyes shining with pride over an accomplishment, or sad when he's sad.

Tears well up again, and Sam wishes he could turn onto his side and curl up in a ball, hold all the pain out by making himself as small as possible. Instead he wipes his eyes and sniffles, and tries to remember his parents as he saw them last, Mom smiling and Dad smiling at _her_. Happy. He hopes they're happy right now; hopes they're together wherever people go after they're dead. Sam knows Mom will be glad to see her parents again. Grandma and Grandpa Campbell died before Sam was born, and Dean says he only vaguely remembers them.

He's still sniffling when Dean comes back, steaming coffee in his hand. It smells really good, and Sam wonders if coffee counts as a clear liquid. Probably not – at least not the hospital coffee.

"Sam? You okay?"

"Yeah." He sniffles again, and manages a watery smile when Dean grabs a handful of tissues and hands them to him. "Thanks. Just thinking about Mom and Dad."

"Ah. Yeah." The chair squeaks a little when Dean settles down on it. "I think I've cried more in the last week than in the rest of my life put together."

"I miss them." It doesn't seem like it can be real.

"I know. I do, too." Dean leans forward and leans carefully on Sam's bed. "Sally gave me a couple of names for counselors. Grief counselors. If either of us wanted to talk to someone."

"You gonna?" Sam has a lot of trouble picturing his _I can handle anything, I'm so macho_ brother going to talk to a counselor.

"I dunno. Maybe." He gives Sam a sheepish smile. "I punched a hole in the wall in your bedroom. Right next to the Harry Potter poster."

"My room? Why my room?"

"Mike and Ellie brought me home last Friday, after Gunther called, and stayed until Monday afternoon. While they were here they slept in my old room – and there was no way I was going in Mom and Dad's room, at least not to sleep. So I was sleeping in yours, and I just—after they had to take you in for that second surgery—I kind of lost my temper."

"Dude."

"Yeah, I know. Hurt my hand, too."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Idiot." He shifts a little. "Would you raise the bed, so I can sit up a little?"

"Shouldn't you be sleeping, or something?"

"I will when they bring the next round of pain meds." Sam wiggles a little, grimacing when even that tiny movement pulls his stitches and jostles things inside. "I think I liked it better when I was unconscious."

"I didn't," Dean says quietly. "I'll be glad when you're discharged and I'm not home all by myself. It's kind of creepy."

"Plus there're all those defenseless walls." That gets him a small smile.

"Well, yeah. That too."

It's quiet for a few minutes while Dean drinks his coffee, and Sam tries not to think about their parents, but thoughts keep slipping in until he says, "So, um. What are we supposed to do—about Mom and Dad?"

"Do?" Dean frowns in confusion. "Oh. Um. Their, uh, their will says they want to be cremated, and then have a memorial stone placed in the cemetery. I've got all the info at home—they bought a small plot, and paid for the stone and stuff. I mean, they did it awhile ago."

"Are they still—uh. Did you do the cremation yet?"

Dean shakes his head. "I was waiting for you—to wake up. I just, I don't know. I thought you should know before I did anything. It felt wrong with you still asleep. And I figured we could have a memorial service for them, then. I know Gunther and Sally, and the guys at the shop, want to pay their respects. I don't know but probably Mom's book club people, and some of the neighbors, stuff like that."

"Yeah." Sam closes his eyes for a minute, trying to think. His mom was – used to be – active with Band Fundraisers, and Dad coached his soccer team for three years in a row, and they'd been active with the Parent-Teacher association for as long as he and Dean had been in school. "I can make a list. What time is it?"

"A little past nine. You okay?"

"Hurts again." Sam leans back against his pillow. "Did you—find out anything about who hit us?"

Dean reaches for the call button, but Sam shakes his head. "They'll be in, in a little while. I'm all right."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. But if it gets worse, tell me."

"Will do."

"It was a tractor-trailer that hit you guys. The driver fell asleep at the wheel, lost control. The police said he woke up just as the truck crossed the median, but it was too late to get control back."

"Is he all right?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. I know he's alive, and they took him to a different hospital."

"Glad he's not here." Sam bites his lip. "I want…I wish…"

"That it was him, and not mom and dad?" Dean says it gently, and Sam nods. "Believe me, I know."

"It's wrong to wish bad things for people."

"Maybe." Dean shrugs. "But it's, I'm not gonna go hunt him down or anything. I don't…know. I don't want anything bad to happen to him, not really. But accident or not, our parents are dead because of him. I don't exactly feel friendly toward the guy."

"Yeah."

Sam wants to say more, but the pain's increasing with every minute, and it feels like if he opens his mouth all he'll do is scream with it. Dean's frowning down at him, hand reaching toward the call button. This time Sam nods. He hates how fast it knocks him out, but he doesn't really want to be awake anymore right now. He just wants to sleep, and not hurt, and not know his parents are dead.

The nurse – she introduces herself as Maggie, and says she'll be his night nurse – comes in to add his meds to the IV. "You get some rest, Sam, and we'll get you up and walking tomorrow; you'll get to go home in no time at all."

When she's done with her checks and gone back to the nurse's station, Dean smiles at him. "Least you got cute nurses to look at. I have to go home and stare at the walls. Or Harry Potter posters."

Sam grabs at Dean's arm, hissing when it makes things shift and burn. "Don't—can't you stay here? I don't want…to be by myself."

"Sure, Sammy." Dean leans in, and to Sam's surprise, brushes a quick kiss across his forehead. It's so totally what their mom would do that Sam feels tears welling up again. All he can do is turn his head and let them soak the pillow while Dean strokes his hair back off his forehead, whispering over and over, "it's okay, Sam, we're going to be okay."

~~~~~

Sam's released on Monday afternoon. He's been up and walking around since Saturday morning, tiny, careful steps that still had him wincing and left him exhausted, but walking.

Since he doesn't have a spleen anymore, the doctor goes over a list of immunizations he has to get, as well as the antibiotics he's going to be on for a while, until his system has fully recovered from the trauma and can stand on its own. Tyler goes over wound care with Sam and Dean both, along with a list of restrictions – "no lifting anything over ten pounds for a couple of weeks" "well, Sammy, guess you can't walk around with your head attached for a while" – and exercises to start doing. He has a follow-up appointment scheduled for ten days from now, to get his staples out, and another with his family doctor to get the aforementioned immunizations, and there's something in there too about dietary things and blood work, but Sam's already tired and hurting again and a lot of what's said just buzzes around him like so much white noise.

Hopefully Dean's paying attention.

Gunther comes along to help Dean get Sam out of the car and into the house, and settled on the couch. He's glad he spent a couple of extra days in the hospital so he gets to miss out on the 'no stairs for 48 hours post-op' restriction. This whole thing sucks balls as it is; coming home only to have to try and fit himself on the couch would have sucked beyond the telling of it.

Sally's there at the house when they pull up, and she's made a banner to hang over the door that reads 'WELCOME HOME SAM!'

"I have homemade macaroni and cheese with ham in the oven right now, honey," she tells Sam as he walks carefully up the steps and into the house. He goes happily into her arms for a long, gentle hug, then sits on the couch while Dean and Gunther go out to switch cars around.

"Eric just called and said he can come by after dinner, if you're up to it," Dean says, coming back in.

"I don't know. Maybe. I'll call him in a few minutes." Sam feels absolutely exhausted, and all he's done is get dressed (with help), get in and out of the car (with more help), and walk up three steps into his house (with even more help—Dean was totally standing behind him while he took each step).

Dean frowns. "You okay?"

"Just really, really tired."

"The casserole will keep on warm, if you need to take a nap, Sam." Sally's already pulling her coat on, and Gunther hasn't taken his off. Sam looks between them. "You're not staying?"

Gunther shakes his head. "I need to get back to the shop, and Sally's going to get to work on the accounting stuff until I can get someone else in to do it. Your daddy did all of our bookkeeping, so we got behind, and it's taking me some time to get back up to speed." He lays one hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezes gently. "But we're both of us just a phone call away if you boys need anything, you hear?" He looks from Sam to Dean and back again, waiting for them both to nod. "Dean, let me know what you decide to do about the memorial service, when you want to do it. The boys at the shop all want to come, so we'll close down for part of a day if we need to."

"Thanks, Gunther." Dean reaches out a hand but Gunther snorts and pulls him into a one-armed hug. He does the same with Sam, though much gentler, and then he and Sally are gone.

"Do you want to eat? Or take a nap?" Dean sits beside Sam and brings one arm up around his shoulders. Sam leans in gratefully. "I need to run to the pharmacy and get your prescriptions filled, but if you want to sleep while I'm gone, I'll help you get settled first."

"Can I go with you? To the pharmacy?"

Dean pulls away enough to frown at Sam. "I'm not gonna be gone long, dude. I just have to turn the prescriptions in; I'll have to go back later to pick them up."

"I just—" Sam stops, bites down on his lip. How do you say – to your older brother, no less – that you don't want him to leave you alone, because you're afraid he might not come back? That you're scared to be alone, period? "Please?"

Dean stares at him for what seems like forever before nodding. "Okay. Sure. Let me go turn the oven down, and then we'll go. You need to hit the can or anything?"

"I'm good."

"They told you to go to the bathroom regularly."

"It hurts when I pee." It hurt like nothing Sam's ever felt when they took the damn catheter out. He was sure that was that last of it, but no. Days later and it still hurts some, which would totally have Sam freaked out except the doctor told him it probably would hurt for a while yet. Just like the rest of him.

"Still." Dean stares until Sam heaves a sigh and pushes himself carefully upright and off the couch. When Dean makes like he's going to follow, Sam scowls at him. "I don't need you to hold it for me."

"You know you secretly want it."

"Perv." Sam smiles as he heads for the bathroom. "Don't forget to turn the oven down. Or better yet, turn it off. It would really suck, after everything else, to burn the house down."

Dean laughs, a sharp, barking sound of agreement, and disappears into the kitchen.

It seems to take years that Sam's standing in front of the toilet, nothing happening, and he has to remind himself he's hurt worse – and recently – and this pain is less every time. He still has to turn the faucet on and listen to the water trickling out before he can make himself actually go, and he's reminded yet again of his mom, how she used that trick many times when he was really little and insisted he didn't have to go.

He finishes and zips up, washes his hands quickly, and heads out to get in the car. Dean's already waiting for him, leaning against the side of the Impala, arms folded across his chest.

"What'd they do with Mom's car?" Sam asks as he very carefully gets in.

"It's at the police impound lot, I think. Unless the insurance agency's gone and carted it off. Why?"

"Was—did anything—was there anything in there?"

"A few things, but even those were busted up pretty good. I have your cell phone, but we'll have to get you a new one—it's all messed up." Dean pats his leg. "The whole car is pretty much scrap metal, Sammy. Not even enough left to use for spare parts."

Sam nods tightly and wonders if things would've been different if they'd been in the Impala. If they'd been hit in this, mom and dad would probably still be alive. He rubs his eyes impatiently and stares out the window, all the way to the pharmacy.

 

 

  
**Chapter Three**   


His first waking thought is: what's going on? His second is: what time is it?

Dean rubs the sleep out of his eyes and squints at his clock, which proclaims it's 2:37 in luminescent green.

It's getting worse, instead of better.

Dean stares at his ceiling, listening to the quiet gasps and sobs coming from Sam's room, until he can't stand it any longer, and gets up.

Like every other night, Sam isn't even awake. He's gasping and whimpering and crying in his sleep, head moving back and forth, body tense like he's expecting to have to jump up at any given moment. He actually had some blood on his bandages this morning, meaning he pulled something at some point during his nightmares.

"Sam. Sammy. Wake up." Dean shakes him gently, fingers brushing damp, sleep-warm cheeks. "C'mon, Sammy."

"Huh? Dean?" He rubs at his eyes, and for a minute Dean's reminded of the chubby toddler who would rub his eyes all the while protesting he wasn't sleepy, not at all! "Did I wake you up again?"

"Nah, I was awake." The lie comes easily, smoothly, because Sam's already carting around enough guilt and worry. "You okay? Need anything?" He knows what's coming as soon as he asks, because Sam's asked him every night since he came home from the hospital – over a week, now – and Dean knows he shouldn't, but he can't help it, can't not say yes. He needs to feel Sam close by as much as his brother seems to need him.

"Sleep with me?" Sam looks so young, hair all tousled and messy and flopping down into his eyes. No way anyone would believe his brother is sixteen, if they saw him like this.

"Sure. Scoot over." It takes Sam a minute to shuffle over, and something tightens in Dean's chest when Sam sighs and relaxes only after Dean slides in beside him. "Get some sleep, okay?"

"'Kay." Sam already sounds halfway to asleep again, and Dean feels his own breathing deepening, slowing down, his body relaxing. Sam's like a furnace beside him, and it's chilly in his room because he likes to sleep with the window open, so Dean edges a little closer, sighing as he warms up and sinks into sleep, right behind Sam.

~~~~~

Dean wakes up with a Sam-shaped octopus wrapped around him, and hard heat pressed against his hip. Sam's rocking gently, quiet, breathy sighs tickling the side of Dean's face. It takes him about half a minute to realize _what_ is pressed against him, and why Sam's rocking, and then he's sliding out of bed as quickly – and carefully – as possible. He makes it to the door just as Sam stirs, and Dean braces for –something – but Sam just rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief as he heads for the bathroom, but he can't help the weird flush of heat that runs through him when he thinks about how _not_ little his little brother felt, hard and ready, up against him.

He lingers in the shower, decidedly not thinking at all about Sam as he soaps up and jerks off, and by the time he's out of the shower and dressed, Sam's sitting up in bed, yawning and stretching carefully.

Dean stops in Sam's doorway. "Any blood this morning?"

"Nope." Sam wrinkles his nose at himself. "I wish I could take a real shower. I feel gross."

"Your face is gross."

Sam rolls his eyes. "What are you, eight? Geez. But seriously. You try not taking a shower for almost two weeks, see how you feel."

"No shower 'til the staples come out." Dean heads down the hall to his room and surveys the boxes still stacked in the corner. Mike and Ellie drove his stuff back to him over the weekend, but he hasn't had a chance to unpack it yet. Now to figure out where his sweatshirts are, because it's chilly out, and the forecast isn't saying much about it warming up.

"I _know_!" Sam calls after him. Dean smiles when he hears the quiet shuffling sounds of Sam heading for the bathroom, and the door slamming shut behind him. He's happy to have his brother being kind of pissy, if only because it means Sam's actually letting himself feel something.

Dean knocks on the door as he goes past it. "You want anything for breakfast?"

"Nothing to eat. Just some orange juice." Sam opens the door. "I'm not hungry."

"You gotta eat something, dude. You have all those pills you have to take."

Sam makes a face at him. "I'm not hungry, Dean."

"How 'bout I make you a—what's it called, a smoothie? With orange juice in it." He's pretty proud of himself for remembering that Sam likes those – though for the life of him, Dean can't imagine _why_. Yogurt and juice? Why not just have a milkshake?

Sam smiles, just a little, but it's enough for the dimples to appear. "That'd be awesome, Dean. There's some fruit in the freezer—strawberries, I think—they'll work with the orange juice."

There's that disturbing flush of warmth again, and Dean feels it expanding inside his chest the longer Sam smiles at him. He clears his throat and nods, mumbles, "Okay, one fake milkshake, coming right up."

Sam's laugh follows him down the stairs.

~~~~~

It's gonna be a busy day; they have lots of things that need to be done. Dean starts to suggest that Sam could stay home and work on the piles of homework Eric dropped off for him, but he knows what Sam's answer will be. Even though it's clearly still painful for Sam to get in and out of the Impala (and Dean can't even imagine what it would be like if it was a small car, like Mom's Honda was), he won't let Dean leave him behind. At all. So Dean's stopped suggesting; it eliminates a lot of stress right off the bat.

They stop by the auto shop first thing, and it's the third most painful thing Dean's done lately, right after having to identify his parents' bodies, and cremating them. This place is what Dean sees when he thinks about his dad. He and Gunther opened the shop together, just a couple months before Dean was born. He's grown up coming in here – both him and Sam have – learning the basics of oil changes and tire rotations at first, and then slowly learning his way around the inside of an engine.

He just saw all the guys at the memorial service, but it's a huge shock to be _here_ , smelling the oil and rubber, and hearing the different noises associated with the shop. The first time he ever smoked a cigarette was out back, Ernie and Dad standing there smoking, laughing when Dean inhaled the smoke and damn near choked to death.

Actually, that was the first and last time he ever smoked a cigarette, though Dad smoked off and on, according to his moods and stress level.

Beside him Sam whispers, "I didn't think it would hurt this much," and Dean nods. He didn't think it would, either.

"C'mon," he says gruffly. "I gotta give these papers to Gunther before I forget 'em again."

Bringing the papers hurts too, because they're the legal papers for Gunther to buy out John Winchester's portion of the shop. Dean doesn't mind working on cars – it can be relaxing, actually – but he doesn't want to make a living doing it, and Sam couldn't find his way around an engine if his life depended on it. Better to sell it outright than have it hanging over them for forever. Sam and Dean spent the better part of one evening sitting with Gunther and Sally, going over the numbers, and then Sam and Dean had to talk it through.

If anyone had ever asked him what a loved one dying would have entailed, paperwork definitely wouldn't have made it onto the list. In Dean's opinion, it's pretty much at the top of said list.

Gunther has someone in his office, so they hang out in the shop area, talking to Ernie and Dave and Jason while they wait. It's bittersweet, because Dean knows they likely won't be back here after this, though they'll probably still see Gunther and Sally, at least.

"Boys," is how Gunther greets them, a hug-and-handshake for each. He waves them into the chairs, and sits down to look over the papers. "Did you want to go through your daddy's toolboxes? I cleaned off his desk for you, put everything in a box. You can go through it when you're feeling more up to it."

Sam gives a shrug about the tools, but Dean hesitates. Dad has -- _had_ , dammit – an awesome collection of tools at home, but that one's dwarfed by what he kept at the shop. "Nah," he says finally. "Pretty sure I got everything I might need in the toolbox at home."

"If you find there's something you need, you just let me know. They ain't goin' nowhere."

Dean tries to smile; hopes it comes out more than the grimace it feels like. "Thanks, Gunther. Do we—is there anything else we need to do, for the shop stuff?" He waves his hand toward the papers. "I signed everywhere the attorney told me I needed to sign—"

"No, no, it looks good. I'll go through and sign, and then take them back to the lawyer, and he'll make sure the money gets into your account." Gunther looks between them, then gives them an almost-gentle smile. "You boys take care of yourselves, you hear? And I meant what I said before: you need anything, you give me a call. Day or night, okay?"

Dean nods; out of the corner of his eye he sees Sam doing the same thing. He's not sure he can actually say anything, though, because his throat feels like he has a huge lump stuck in it. Maybe everything he'd like to say.

They say goodbye to Gunther, and to the rest of the guys as they exit the garage, and then it's just them getting into the car.

"Fucking hate all this," Dean mutters as he starts the engine. Beside him, Sam makes a quiet noise of assent, and Dean knows if he looks over he's going to see Sam, pale and tired-looking, mouth drawn down into a tight line. It's hard to see past that, now, and remember his happy, always laughing, healthy-looking younger brother. For just an instant Dean's pissed at his parents for dying, for leaving them, for all the crap both he and Sam have to deal with now. He tightens his grip on the wheel and breathes slow and deep for a minute until the anger eases and passes onto the guy who fell asleep while driving and killed his parents – and his younger brother, to some extent.

He's still mad when he puts the car in gear; angry when he steps on the gas, tires squealing loudly as he pulls out of the parking lot. He slams on the brakes abruptly when a car appears out of nowhere, driver honking his horn and shouting incomprehensibly from behind glass. The tires shriek again—

No, that's not the tires. That's Sam. Sam, gone beyond pale and into white, as if he's just seen a ghost, eyes wide and scared, hands clutching at his abdomen where he's still stapled together from the last run-in with a car being where it shouldn't.

"Sammy? Sam, God, I'm sorry. You okay?" Dean feels sick to his stomach when Sam shakes his head. He backs the car slowly into the parking lot they just left, and puts it into park. Sam's across the seat and into his arms before he's even fully turned, and Dean just holds him and strokes his hair while Sam sobs, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Sam."

~~~~~

Once Sam's calmed down enough that Dean can drive again (though 'calm' isn't the word Dean would use willingly, since Sam's still shaking like a leaf in a hurricane) they head back home. Forget the doctor's appointment, it can be rescheduled; so can the appointment with the insurance agent. They can get groceries another day; there's always pizza delivery.

Dean leads Sam upstairs and strips him down to his boxers, then pushes him gently toward the bed. He doesn't wait for Sam to ask – beg – him to stay, just strips his own clothes off and climbs in behind, pulling the covers up around them. Sam curls onto his side and Dean spoons up behind him, holding him close. It feels wrong and right, good and bad all at the same time, with the right and good growing as Sam's shivering slows and then stops. When he turns in Dean's arms and presses a hesitant kiss to Dean's mouth, it feels perfect. The first good thing that's happened since that awful, horrible moment he got the phone call.

One kiss turns into two, three, four, and each one is more perfect than the last, soft and gentle, practically chaste.

Sam licks at Dean's mouth, tongue tip teasing along his lips, and Dean opens up for him eagerly. Wants to kiss and be kissed, and make everything bad that's happened lately just disappear for a little while.

He coaxes Sam over onto him by rolling onto his back, arms coming up to hold Sam close. Sam makes a little whimpering sound low in his throat and strains forward, tongue sweeping through Dean's mouth, tasting him thoroughly. Dean slides his hands down the length of Sam's back, tracing over smooth, soft skin and feeling the muscles flex beneath it. He cups Sam's ass in his hands, the heat of his skin burning even through boxers. Sam gasps into Dean's mouth and rocks downward, his dick hardening against Dean's leg as he moves. Dean's hard in his shorts, too, and it only takes a couple of tugs to get Sam right against him, weight providing the best possible friction when they move against each other.

Sam tenses against him, and Dean feels his erection harden further just before it pulses, wet heat spreading through two layers of thin cotton. He keeps kissing Sam, tongue stroking over the soft, slick surfaces while Sam moves against him. Dean comes right after Sam, body throbbing in time with each spurt, hips rocking upward, seeking more friction even while it's almost too much.

Sam snuggles down against Dean, breathing evening out and then slowing, deepening. Dean rubs his back, slow, sweeping movements up and down until Sam goes lax against him, snoring softly. That's when Dean's brain catches up.

_Oh, my God, what did we just do?_

He counts it as a win that Sam doesn't wake up when he practically falls out of bed in his haste to get out. He makes it to the bathroom just before throwing up, and spends several minutes dry heaving into the toilet. Even after brushing his teeth, he can taste the bitterness of bile.

~~~~~

Dean's at the kitchen table going over the checkbook (he can't quite bring himself to call it _his_ checkbook yet, and it's weird and inaccurate to still call it _Mom-and-Dad's-checkbook_ , so he's just going with _the checkbook_ ) when Sam shuffles in a few hours later. He's still flushed with sleep, and his hair is kind of everywhere, curling and twisting into odd swirls, and a couple of improbable-looking spikes. He put sweats on, though no t-shirt, and Dean has to make an effort not to let his eyes wander up and down the full length of Sam's body.

His stomach rolls, and Dean swallows the nausea down determinedly. Sam doesn't need to have to deal with Dean's panic attack. Especially since this is the first time since Dean saw him lying in the hospital bed, pale and still, that Sam has some color in his cheeks and doesn't look haunted by recent events.

_Hey, let's hear it for a little incest, smoothing things over._

Oh, God.

"Hey, Sammy," he manages, and wonders how long he's been lost inside his head. Sam shuffles past him, pausing to stop and drop a kiss on the top of Dean's head, and on to the refrigerator. He pulls the carton of orange juice out, starts to open it, then stops and looks toward the cupboard where the glasses are. Dean can't help smiling. "Go on," he encourages. "I'm not gonna tell on you. Besides, it always tastes better out of the carton."

Sam snorts, but doesn't disagree. Instead, he brings the carton to the table and takes a seat across from Dean. He stares until Dean wants to fidget, then asks, "So, are you totally freaking out?"

"Maybe." Possibly. _Definitely_. "Yeah." Dean watches him take a long drink of the juice, throat working as Sam swallows, and drops his eyes. "Aren't you?"

"Maybe a little bit." Sam chugs some more juice, then sets the carton aside. "I've thought about doing that before, though."

Dean's pretty sure he couldn't be more surprised if Sam just told him he'd sprouted a tail and horns. "Say what? You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope. Didn't—plan to ever follow through on it, but I thought about it."

"But—I—dude." It's been a while since Sam was able to render Dean this speechless. He can't think of anything even remotely coherent to say, so he settles for shaking his head, and trying to change the subject. "I rescheduled your doctor's appointment for tomorrow, and I changed our appointment with the insurance agent to later this afternoon. We need to swing by the attorney's office, too, and get the power-of-attorney so I can close out Mom and Dad's checking account, and open up one in our – my – our names."

"In yours, or in ours?" Sam raises an eyebrow. "We could be domestic partners."

"Sam! Jesus." He scowls at his brother. "We can't—that's not going to happen again. It was just a comfort thing. A one-time comfort thing." No matter how good, how _right_ it felt to hold Sam like that, it just can't happen again. Period.

"Being domestic partners isn't going to happen again? We haven't been that, to start with."

Dean opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before he actually has words. "Sex," he says through gritted teeth. "The sex can't happen again, and we're sure as hell not going to be domestic partners. Jesus Christ, Sam. I could go to _jail_ for what we did. You're sixteen, for fuck's sake!"

"You're gonna focus on my age, instead of how we could both go to jail for that whole sex-between-siblings thing?"

Dean's pretty sure he's about two seconds away from hyperventilating, and Sam's sitting there, cool and collected as anything. "Okay, yeah, there's that—but you're missing the bigger picture: you're _sixteen_. I'm almost twenty-one! Sex with a minor—not to mention I'm your fucking guardian, now!"

Sam slaps his hands down on the table and glares – actually fucking _glares_ \-- at Dean. "Age of consent in Kansas is sixteen. I'm sixteen. And I wasn't planning to run out and tell the world that I had sex with my brother. Besides, _I_ kissed _you_. You didn't take advantage of me or anything."

"Still your guardian," Dean says in a weak voice. Sam needs to be a fucking _lawyer_ , or something.

"Still not planning to tell anyone," Sam snaps back. He gentles his voice then, and asks, "Who's it hurting if it's something that feels good and we both agree to?" He pauses, then says, "You say it was a comfort thing—and it was. But it felt like—like more, too."

Dean shakes his head, not sure of what to say, but unable to just let it go like that. "Can we—have this talk again later? When I'm not trying to figure out bills and payments and shit?" Sam heaves a huge sigh and nods. The animation from earlier is gone from his face, from his eyes; he's back to looking pale and drawn, tired and sad. Dean aches to realize he did that. Did both: made Sam happy again, then took it away like a bully taking a little kid's candy. Fuck. "Sam—"

"Forget it." Sam's already pushing away from the table, one hand on his belly, making aborted rubbing/scratching motions. "I'm gonna go get dressed. Let me know when you're ready to go."

Goddammit. Dean wishes he knew what to do, or say, to make things right again. Or, well. He wishes he had the strength and the guts to do what he knows he should do…what he wants to do. Because in spite of the fact that Sam's his brother, for those minutes they were together, kissing and touching…it was perfect. He and Sam, in sync with each other, caring for and about each other. Partners.

He thinks he understands better why people are drawn to the things they aren't supposed to have, once they have a tiny taste. Something that's forbidden tastes sweet, and once you know how sweet something is, you want more and more of it. Dammit.

 

  


 

 

  
**Chapter Four**   


The absolute best part about getting his staples out, is Sam gets to take a real shower. Finally.

He stays in long enough that the water actually turns cold, which is a pretty awesome feat considering Dad replaced the hot water heater a few years ago with a bigger one, so they could all shower without the water running cold.

Dean's helped him wash his hair and do the sponge-bath thing while he's been healing, but it's not the same. Plus, things have been _really_ weird between them since that day last week. Weird enough that while Dean is still sleeping with him, he jumps if Sam so much as glances in his direction, which sucks a whole lot.

The downside to getting his staples out, is it means he has to go back to school. Not that Sam is against school, per se. It'll be good to get back to his classes, especially band and biology. No, what's going to suck like a hoover is that he'll be at school, and Dean will be here at home. Or at least, not at school with Sam.

He's doing better, mostly, with the separation thing. Made it a whole thirty minutes yesterday before the cold sweats started. Sam knows he needs to get a grip, because this is totally a psychological thing. But knowing something, and being able to pull it off are two different things entirely.

Dean's out right now, actually, has been for coming on close to an hour, now. And if Sam's set to wear a hole in his carpet from pacing, oh, well.

"So no more marching band at all?" Eric's over today; his mom dropped him off after school, along with pan of lasagna she made, obviously not trusting that Sam and Dean can cook for themselves. Neither one of them is going to argue with anyone who wants to feed them, because while they can both fix mac-and-cheese from a box, or make sandwiches, that's about the extent of their repertoire. So, double win: real food for dinner, plus company. It's nice to have Eric hanging out with him, because it actually takes his mind off Dean being gone. Somewhat.

"The doctor said I could probably start back after the new year. I have to wait and see how everything's doing."

"But you got your staples out."

"God, yes. Finally." And he can scratch the itchy, healing incisions to his heart's content, now, too.

"Can I see the scar?" Eric looks like he's asking Sam to show him something dirty or perverted, all sly and stealthy, and Sam grins. Eric makes Sam look like a wild man, he's so conservative. Asking to see Sam's scar probably seems dirty or weird to him.

"I have three of 'em, actually." Sam lifts the hem of his t-shirt to show them off. The first is where a piece of something, metal probably, went through and into his abdomen; the second is from the surgery it took to repair that damage, and the third was when they had to go in and remove his spleen. He explains all this to Eric – though he probably talked about it some when Eric first visited, Sam can't remember – while Eric stares in fascination.

"Do they still hurt? They look like they hurt."

"This one does." Sam points to the largest one, the one from the second surgery. "Or, well. It doesn't hurt so much as itch—but inside still hurts. All achy, kind of."

Eric frowns up at him. "That must feel weird. Because you're missing parts now, right?"

"Missing a part, anyway, yeah. And it does feel kind of weird, because it's not like it _hurts_ , but then it kind of does. I don't know how to explain it." Sam tugs his shirt back down and sits down on his bed.

"Mom wanted me to remind you that you guys are invited for Thanksgiving dinner."

"Tell her I said thanks, but Gunther and Sally already told Dean they expect us to be there." Sam gives Eric a smile. "Which isn't really different than any other year, because we had Thanksgiving dinner with them most of the time. Just—no parents, this year."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Thanks." Sam's sorry, too. He hates mentioning it because it fucking hurts, but not talking about them at all hurts, too. Like he's trying to pretend they never existed or something. "So, hey. You said Cassidy Arvada said yes to going to the Winter dance with you?"

"Yes!" Eric looks almost as relieved as Sam feels to change the subject, and he launches into a gushing ramble about Cassidy's many virtues, most of which Sam already knows because hello, Cassidy lives just down the street from him and he's known her for forever. But it's cute that Eric's so head-over-heels, and it takes his mind mostly off things.

Mrs. Westerly picks Eric up a little after five, and about ten minutes after that Sam hears the low, growly sound of the Impala pulling into the drive. He manages not to fling himself at Dean as soon as he steps through the door, but it's a near thing.

"Eric's mom brought us dinner," he tells him. "Lasagna."

"Ooh." Dean's eyes light up. "I think we still have some garlic toast out in the big freezer."

"Yeah, I think so. I'm gonna make a salad, do you want one, too?"

"Vegetables? On purpose?" Dean manages to look so horrified that it's all Sam can do not to laugh. "Sammy, you're a teenager. You're not supposed to eat green things willingly."

"Carrots and tomatoes aren't green."

"Well, you're not supposed to eat green things, or orange or red things, either." Dean sets a thick envelope on the kitchen table, and puts a cardboard box beside it. "The stuff from Dad's desk at the shop," he says, when Sam raises his eyebrow. "It's been in the trunk of the car and I kept forgetting to bring it in."

"And the envelope?"

"From the attorney. Gunther owns A&W Auto Repairs completely now. The money from the buy-out is in our account, and that's that." Dean says it briskly, no-nonsense, but Sam knows it hurts—because it hurts him, too. Yeah, it's the logical thing to do since neither of them have any real interest in keeping on Dad's share, but it's like one more thing, one more bit of their history, of their parents, gone. "Sam?"

He refocuses on Dean. "Huh?"

"I asked if you wanted to eat now, or wait awhile?"

"Sorry. Um. We can wait awhile, if you want. I'm good."

"Nah, now is good." Dean hangs his coat over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and Sam almost says, "better move that before Mom sees it." He catches himself, but it's just one more _thing_ on top of a bunch of them, and he finds himself asking, "It's gonna get easier, right? I mean, everyone says it will, but I keep wondering if that's just a bunch of bullshit people tell other people because they don't know what else to say. But I'm so tired of everything reminding me of Mom and Dad, and I miss them so much, and I _hate_ this."

His stomach hurts, too, both surgical incisions, and that's probably something to do with some of this.

Dean falters, then steps in closer and pulls Sam into a hug. It feels so good Sam can't help but cling a little bit, and he shivers when Dean brushes a kiss across his temple. "It'll get better, Sammy. It kind of has to, because I can't imagine if it got any worse."

Sam stays in Dean's arms until he feels confident he's not going to lose it completely, and then he lifts his head and tries on a smile. It must work, because his brother smiles back at him, then reaches to brush his hair back off his forehead. "You need a haircut, kiddo."

Sam snorts. "Says you. I like it longer."

"It's gone beyond 'longer', dude. You're rapidly heading into hippie territory."

"Flower power, peace and love-ins were the bomb, back in the day."

"Which is not a day you remember. Don't you have some homework you need to do?"

"Yeah. Hey, what's that?" Dean's pulled another, much thinner, envelope out of his jacket pocket.

"My homework. I gotta get all the paperwork done so I can start back to school in January."

"Yeah?" Sam's belly clenches tight with something that feels like fear. "Here in town? Or back at the university?"

"Sam." Dean looks at him. "I already said I was transferring to a local college. Relax. I'm not going anywhere. Promise."

"You shouldn’t make promises you might not be able to keep."

"Hey." Dean takes Sam's chin in hand, and tilts his head down a little. "There's no way I'm not keeping a promise like that. It's my job to look after you. Take care of you." He leans in and brushes a light, chaste kiss across Sam's mouth, then adds, "Even when you're being an annoying pain in the ass."

"Hmph. Sweet talk like that will get you anywhere." But Sam's totally smiling when he says it, and his lips tingle, just a little bit.

Dean might feel conflicted about the sex stuff, but it's pretty obvious he wants it, too. Actions – like the kisses – speak louder than any words he's said so far.

 

 

~~~~~

"You're gonna be late if you don't get your ass in gear." Dean's standing by the front door, jingling the keys in his hand impatiently, and Sam scowls. He knows he's dragging his feet on this, but he can't help it.

On the one hand, he's glad to go back to school. He misses his friends, his teachers, misses having something normal in his life. But on the other hand, what if something happens to Dean while he's at school? What if there's an accident and this right now is the last time he sees his brother alive, like with his parents? He ducks back into the bathroom and closes the door, then leans forward against sink for support while he tries to slow down his breathing. Now is _not_ a good time for a panic attack.

"Sam! C'mon, shake a leg." Dean bangs on the bathroom door, and Sam jumps. "Dude. Come on."

"In—in a minute."

The doorknob rattles, and then Dean's pushing the door open. "Sam?"

He shakes his head, and meets Dean's eyes in the mirror over the sink. "I…can't, Dean."

"You can't what?"

"Leave—you. I can't do it. What if something happens?"

Dean sighs and leans back against the door, shutting it. "Sammy—"

"Don't say nothing will happen. You don't know that. You _can't_ know that."

"I wasn't going to say that." Dean pulls Sam back against him and winds his arms around Sam's waist. Close together like this, Sam feels safe. He stares at their reflections; he's a shade taller than his brother, now, but he thinks he could be twice Dean's size and he'd still feel safe in his embrace. "I am gonna remind you that you can call me or text me any time you need to. Okay?"

Sam nods. In the mirror Dean leans in a little, and Sam feels the soft scritch of stubble against his throat, and the softer touch of Dean's lips, following the line of Sam's throat up to his jaw. Sam closes his eyes and turns in Dean's arms. Dean's hands are warm against Sam's face when he cups it, his mouth gentle on Sam's. So much love, so much caring, and Sam can feel it all through him. He kisses back, hungry for more, for every touch Dean will give him, wanting to lose himself in his brother.

Eventually Dean draws back, not pulling away but separating enough to whisper in Sam's ear, "You're gonna be okay, Sammy. _We're_ gonna be okay. Right?" Sam nods, and Dean kisses him once more. "Okay. Now let's get you to school."

~~~~~

"What do you want to do about Christmas this year?" Sam's only half awake, chewing his cereal with his eyes still mostly shut, but Dean's question wakes him right up.

"What? What'd'you mean?"

Dean gives him an apologetic half-shrug. "I'm—not really feeling the whole Christmas thing this year. Thanksgiving was hard enough. I don't think I can make myself go up into the attic and bring down the Christmas decorations."

Well, put that way. "Yeah, you're probably right." Sam drops his spoon into his bowl. "I didn't think about it. Didn't want to think about it."

"That's kind of been the theme to our lives the last couple of months." Dean stretches, then reaches out and snags Sam's juice glass, downing the contents before Sam's even really aware it's been taken.

"Hey! That was the last of the OJ."

"Relax, Princess. I'm going to the store after I drop you at school. I promise I'll get you some more orange juice."

"You better." Sam scowls at his empty glass. "Jerk."

"Bitch. Jesus, you're like an orange juice junkie, aren't you? I wonder what it was mom ate or drank while she was pregnant with you, to make you like this."

"Same stuff she ate or drank while she was pregnant with you, probably."

"Nuh-uh. Because you eat vegetables on purpose, by choice."

Sam rolls his eyes, and gets up from the table, taking his dishes with him. "Just don't forget to get some more and I promise I won't tell Santa that you're a jerk who steals the last of the OJ from his younger brother."

"Ah, me and Santa, we go way back. Give it your best shot." Dean tosses his napkin at Sam. "And think about what you want to do for Christmas."

~~~~~

Sam considers it all through school, in the car on the way home, and all afternoon while he does his homework.

He's still thinking about it when bedtime rolls around, and Dean tugs gently on a hank of hair. "If I'd known you were going to try and short-circuit your brain, I wouldn't have brought it up. Stop thinking so hard, I can smell the smoke."

"Oh, shut up," Sam says, and yeah, it's not witty and it came out a little harsher than he'd meant, but he's tired and his abdomen's been bothering him all evening. He kicks his jeans off and lays them over the back of his chair along with his t-shirt, before crawling into bed. The light clicks off and Dean's sliding in beside him, warm and solid against him.

"Sammy? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just achy today. Sorry I snapped at you."

"S'okay." Dean snuggles closer, spooning up behind Sam. "You want me to get you some Tylenol?"

"Nah, I'm good. Just—this. Like this is good." He pulls Dean's arms tighter around him and sighs when Dean nuzzles at his throat and along his jaw. "I like that," he whispers, and feels Dean's lips curve into a smile before he whispers back, "me too."

In the morning, Sam's abdomen is tender and sore. Dean takes one look at it, and at Sam wincing as he crawls out of bed, and drives them to the ER. They wait for three hours to be seen – it seems like every person in Lawrence is in with flu symptoms – and then it's good news and bad news. The good news: nothing's torn or ripped, just irritated. Probably too much lifting, hauling his schoolbooks around. The bad news: he's on restriction from lifting anything heavier than a loaf of bread for the next two weeks, which _bites_.

"So you'll have to stop by your locker between every class," Dean says. "So what? You have a doctor's note, they're not going to mark you tardy."

"That still doesn't fix morning and afternoon, for homework. I'll still have to carry my book bag then."

Dean shakes his head. "I'll carry the bag to your locker in the morning, and I'll meet you there in the afternoon, and carry it to the car."

Sam lets his head thunk against the car window several times.

"It's only for week, then you're out of school for the winter holiday." Dean pats his shoulder, which somehow turns into rubbing a thumb over his cheek.

"True." That won't be so bad, right? Just one week to get through.

It still gets him a lot of funny looks the first couple of days, and Sam gets really good at ignoring those looks. Most everyone who knows him knows why he was injured in the first place, and they're sympathetic for the most part.

He and Dean decide to do the get-Chinese-food-and-go-to-the-movies thing for Christmas, foregoing even putting up a tree. It doesn't stop Sam from waking up early Christmas morning – far earlier than he'd gotten up in years – and rummaging quietly around in his desk until he finds the little box he stashed away from prying eyes. He wraps it in newspaper, smiling at Dean's snores and snorts behind him, then puts a huge green bow on it, and sets it on the corner of his desk where Dean can't possibly miss it. He slides back into bed, and into his brother's arms, and kisses up and down Dean's throat and along his jaw line, his lips tingling from the stubble on Dean's face.

"Muhhh?" Dean shivers when Sam bites down on the long tendon on the side of his neck. "Sammy? Wha--?"

"Merry Christmas," Sam whispers, then kisses Dean again, licking at his lips. He's sure he can taste some of the cocoa from the hot chocolate they had just before bed, and he chases after it, teasing his tongue around and around Dean's until Dean's responding, pulling him closer and angling his head so Sam can kiss deeper.

Dean mutters something Sam can't quite make out, and then he's shifting, reaching for Sam's hand. He draws it down and settles it over his erection, squeezing at Sam's fingers until he starts rubbing gently through the cloth, pressing and molding the fabric over the thick length.

"Feels good," Dean says, arching his hips upward, rocking into Sam's hand.

"Can I—take it out?" Sam strokes his fingers up and down the length, then rubs at the tip, feeling the cloth dampening.

"God, yes." Dean wiggles until Sam realizes he's trying to push his shorts down, and he goes to work getting them off Dean entirely. His own follow, leaving them with nothing between them, just lots of smooth, hot skin. Sam shifts up onto one elbow and strokes Dean's erection with two fingers, moving lightly up and down. He can feel it throb against his fingers and it makes heat curl low in his belly; makes his belly tighten with anticipation. "Harder, Sam. Please."

So Sam strokes him harder, wrapping his fingers tightly around, grinning when Dean shudders and pushes up into his grip, fucking into the tight warmth of his fist. He jacks him hard and fast, the way he likes, and is rewarded by Dean making the most awesome noises, grunts and gasps, breathy pleas for more, more, please Sammy, more.

Dean's dick swells in his grip, throbbing harder, and then Dean's coming, thick pulses of spunk splashing on Sam's fingers and up onto Dean's belly. Sam licks his fingers clean, then leans down and licks at Dean's stomach before moving further down. Dean sucks in a harsh breath when Sam laps at the sticky head, tongue poking gently into the small slit. By the time he's finished, Dean's plumped up some, and Sam lifts his head to give him a huge grin.

Dean flips him so quick it takes Sam's breath away, because he really wasn't expecting that. He gets half a minute to adjust and then Dean's mouth is on his, hot and wet, then moving lower, licking and kissing as he goes.

When he closes his mouth over one of Sam's nipples, Sam nearly comes up off the mattress. He doesn't have a lot of experience, but he also never gave any thought to his nipples being sensitive. Not a girl, right? But apparently gender doesn't matter as much as _individual_ , because Dean sucking his nipple into a hard, tight nub? So, so, _so_ good. Sam threads his fingers through Dean's hair and holds on, arching upward to get as much of that delicious suction as possible.

"Dean, God—"

"Oh, baby." Dean laughs softly against Sam's chest, then bites gently on the other nipple, making Sam jerk. "Just wait 'til I get down to your dick."

"Please, be my guest," Sam manages hoarsely. He whimpers and shivers when Dean licks downward, tongue teasing at his navel before kisses are pressed along the still-healing scars. The sparse trail of hair leading down from his navel to his dick is wetted down thoroughly, and Sam thinks he's going to die of wanting before Dean ever gets to his cock.

He's just about to say something to that effect when Dean takes him into his mouth, and oh, Jesus. He's never felt _anything_ as good as Dean's mouth feels, hot and wet and completely surrounding him. The one other blowjob he's had in his lifetime was fast and awkward, fumbling around on the couch in a friend's basement last year, with Alicia Hayes. This? This is a zillion times better.

Dean licks around the crown of his dick, and teases his tongue against the little slit there before sucking Sam in, drawing him further and further into his mouth. He sucks Sam slowly, then faster, one hand moving down to cup Sam's balls, rolling them gently in his hand.

The heat in his belly has transformed into fire. Electricity. He's being consumed by it, as it spreads all through him.

"Dean—Dean, gonna, I can't—"

Sam comes with a groan, thrusting upward into Dean's mouth with each pulse of his dick. Dean swallows around him, then licks him clean before sliding back up to kiss Sam, sharing the taste of his come.

"Best Christmas present ever," Sam whispers, before biting at Dean's lower lip. He thinks Dean laughs, but it's kind of hard to say for sure, since his mouth is otherwise occupied.

That's okay. Sam's happy to keep it occupied for awhile.

~~~~~

"Oh, man. Sam, this is awesome! I love it!" Dean holds the necklace up and studies the little—whatever it is. Sam isn't really sure what to call it. It's like a little idol, or statue, or something, and the lady selling it at the outdoor market told Sam it was a protection charm. That was all he needed to hear before laying down his money. "Thank you."

Sam beams at him. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like it."

"I love it. And it's kind of gonna make my gift a little lame, but—Merry Christmas." He hands Sam a small box – really, not much bigger than the little pendant's box – also wrapped in newspaper, but with a red-and-gold bow.

When Sam rips the paper off, he's staring at a brand-new iPod Touch, and his mouth drops open. "Really? A Touch? Oh, man! Thank you!"

"I know you're going to shrivel up and die without your tunes." Dean gives Sam a grin, then pokes him. "C'mon, let's get something to eat, and then we can see what movies are playing."

They end up getting sucked into a marathon showing of all the _Home Alone_ movies, followed up by Jim Carrey's _The Grinch_ , so that it's getting dark when they're ready to eat again, the clock moving toward four-thirty.

"I still like the original, the cartoon, better," Sam says as Dean pulls out the phone book to find a Chinese place.

"That's because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life."

"Just because I'm not a fan of Jim Carrey doesn't mean I don't appreciate the finer things in life." Sam gives Dean's shoulder a shove on his way past. "Besides, the Whos just look _wrong_ in the movie."

"They're pretty freaky looking no matter what," Dean points out. "They have antennas on their heads." He thumbs through the phone book, then looks at Sam. "How about Lucky Chin's? They have a buffet."

"Works for me." Sam sits down to pull on his sneakers. "Wanna go look at lights after we eat?"

Dean nods. "Can't ditch that custom. Remember when the Hammersmiths did their whole winter wonderland fantasy thing? What was that, three years ago?"

"Four, I think," Sam says, watching Dean lace up his boots. "I wonder what their electric bill was like that year."

"They haven't done it up like that since, so I'm thinking it was pretty bad."

They run into the Markowitz family at Lucky Chin's, and end up sitting with them for a little while, just exchanging pleasantries. Sam's had Rachel Markowitz in at least one of his classes since he was in the third grade, and Dean used to play baseball with Adam and Bruce, though they were a year behind Dean in school. After dinner, Dean drives them around the city and then downtown to look at the lights and decorations.

It's nice, and for a little while, Sam manages to forget how much the holidays hurt this year.

  


 

 

  
**Chapter Five**   


 

"We really should clean out Mom and Dad's room," is how Dean greets Sam when he picks him up from school, the first day back after break. "It's been…long enough, now."

"You think so?" Sam pulls the car door shut, maybe a little more forcefully than is strictly necessary. Dean makes an effort not to say anything. "I don't think it's been all that long."

"Can't be scared to go in there for forever." Dean winces even as the words leave his mouth, because that really came out a lot more callous than he meant for it to.

"I'm not _scared_ to go in there—there's just been no reason to go. It's not like that's the only bed we could sleep in."

"Dammit, Sam—"

"Dean—SHIT!" Sam kind of screams the word, and Dean slams on the brakes. It's a replay of that day they went to the garage, though at least this time Sam doesn't break down into a full-on panic attack. He's still deathly pale, eyes big in his face, but he's not freaking out. Much. Mostly. "Jesus. Jesus, Dean, don't—you, I can't lose you too, God, please—"

Or, well. Maybe he is. Dean double-checks that no other cars are coming before pulling out onto the street. Beside him, Sam is a twitching, shivering mess, and Dean kind of wants to put his fist through another wall. How is that the one thing he wants to do above all else – protect Sam – is the one thing he keeps screwing up beyond belief? He reaches out his hand and tries not to take it personally when Sam flinches away at first. Then Sam's grabbing onto his hand, twining their fingers together, all the while his breathing shallow and ragged.

"Sammy. Sam. We're okay. It's all right. Take some deep breaths, you're hyperventilating—" He glances over and shakes their joined hands. " _Sam_. Breathe, dude. Nice and slow, yeah, like that, c'mon, just breathe—"

He talks Sam through the breathing until he can pull off into a Burger King parking lot and let Sam have a few minutes to finish calming down. Afterward, Dean gets them both chocolate shakes, and drops the subject of cleaning out their parents' room. Something to talk about later. In a week or two.

~~~~~

It takes Dean another full month to convince Sam that yeah, they really do need to go through Mom and Dad's stuff.

"It seems intrusive," is the first objection Sam makes, and when Dean grits his teeth and says, "they're _dead_ , Sam, how intrusive can it be?" Sam doesn't speak to him for three days.

"It's going to be weird. We might find, I dunno, sex toys. Or tapes. Or something," is Sam's next main objection, and okay, he has a point with that. Dean's not overly eager to imagine their parents having a sex life, period – actually, he doesn't even like to consider the words 'parents' and 'sex' in the same sentence – but once it's done it'll be done. When he tells Sam this, Sam just pretends not to hear him.

They have an all-out shouting match when Dean finally snaps and says he's going to go in there and start sorting shit, and if Sam wants to be a prissy little bitch about it and make him do all the work, then fine.

Dean's actually kind of impressed with the vocabulary Sam has, when it comes to insults and name-calling. He's a little less impressed with the volume both of them apparently can produce when Mr. Dawson from next door comes round knocking, asking if they're both okay, and does he need to call the police? They both apologize to Mr. Dawson, and then to each other, and then Sam distracts Dean completely after the door's closed by dropping to his knees and blowing Dean – and his mind, whoa – right there in the living room.

Dean waits until they're in bed to bring it up again, and this time he does it the way he should've done it to begin with: gently. Sam in his arms, Dean combing his fingers through Sam's hair, soothing him.

"If we make it the project for this weekend, we can get everything sorted out and then we'll be done with it, Sam. It won't be hanging over our heads – and you have to agree, it's gotta be done. It's not going to be fun; I figure it's gonna hurt like a bitch. But we need to do it."

"I know," Sam says, voice so low Dean can hardly hear it. "But it's—that's the last link, Dean. We go through and clean out their stuff, and they're…gone. For real. Forever."

He hears the hitch in Sam's breathing, and doesn't need to look to know his brother's crying. Dean pulls him closer and holds him while he cries, his own eyes burning with unshed tears.

~~~~~

"Okay, so we have, what, three piles? Salvation Army, keep, and trash?" Sam's frowning at the pile of clothes on the bed.

"Yeah. I don't think we're probably going to keep much in the way of their clothes—are we?" Dean doesn't have the faintest idea why they would keep any of Mom's clothes. Dad's they might be able to wear, but women's things? "We can just toss the underwear and stuff, right? Goodwill, or wherever, they don't take those, do they?"

Sam shakes his head. "I have no idea. Probably not—would you want to buy someone's used underwear?"

"I don't want to _borrow_ someone's used underwear, so, no."

"You've borrowed mine before."

"Once! Because mine were all dirty, because somebody didn't do laundry like he promised."

"That was right after I got home from the hospital, and you _told_ me not to worry about it." Sam shakes open a trash bag. "I'll hold, you want to just toss?"

No, he really doesn't. Dean might be sleeping with his brother, but even the thought of touching his mother's underwear skeeves him like nothing else ever has. "Sure. Um. Do we have any of those latex gloves mom used to wear when she was cleaning?"

"Oh, for God's sake." Sam shoves the trash bag at him, and pushes around Dean to open the first drawer. "Which one of us is the _adult_ in this family?" He tosses a handful of pale pastel fabric into the trash bag.

"Not me," Dean says, tugging on Sam's hair.

"Ow! No kidding." Sam swats at Dean's hand, then rubs his head. "Jerk."

"Cut your hair, and I won't have such a good target to tempt me." Dean tugs again, and ends up with a bra draped over his head.

"Do that again, and it's going to be panties," Sam warns. Dean narrows his eyes, but he's not willing to risk it. That would just be too gross.

Once they're done with the underwear – which included Dad's underwear drawer, and ended up scarring both of them when they found a satiny black thong, obviously for a guy, with a tiny pair of decorative handcuffs on the front – they take a break and call for pizza. Dean rummages around in the old fridge down in the basement until he finds a six-pack of Budweiser stashed in the back behind three cases of Pepsi.

"I can't deal with anymore shocks without a little alcohol," he tells Sam when he brings the beer upstairs.

They eat pizza and drink beer, and Dean gets a kick out of watching Sam get his buzz on. His brother's always been the prim-and-proper one, not smoking any weed or getting drunk at friends' parties. Of course that's probably because most of Sam's friends are just as geeky as Sam is.

In any case, two beers make his brother a lot more mellow and relaxed, and Dean wonders why he didn't think to get him drunk sooner. Although, he's done enough corrupting with the whole having-sex-with-his-brother-the-minor thing. Probably not the best plan to add much else into the mix.

They finish cleaning out Mom and Dad's dressers, and their closet, and holy shit Mom had a lot of shoes. "Who the hell needs this many pairs of shoes?" Dean mutters as he tosses three more pairs of sandals into a bag. Sam just shrugs. "I think it's a girl thing."

"Must be. Dad doesn't have nearly this many pairs. Hell, I'm not sure you, me and Dad together have as many pairs as Mom had."

Once the clothes are all gathered and bundled into the Impala, Sam brings Mom's jewelry box down to the kitchen table. Dean sits down beside him and opens another beer.

"I want to keep their wedding rings," Sam tells him.

"Yeah. I kind of figured we would." Dean frowns down into the box. "And the emerald pendant Dad gave Mom for their twentieth anniversary."

"Okay." Sam sets that aside, along with the rings. "What're we going to do with the stuff we decide not to keep? Sell it?"

Dean watches Sam pull out a gold bracelet. "I guess? I don't know. What do you think we should do with it?"

"Is there some sort of charity thing we could donate it to?" Sam rolls the bracelet between his hands, and Dean swallows against the warm feeling he gets down low, when he's given a visual reminder of how big Sam's hands are.

"Didn't Mom do some work with, I don't know, March of Dimes or something?" Dean reaches out and plucks the bracelet from Sam's hand. It's just too visually distracting to watch him playing with it. Dean needs to be able to focus on the job at hand.

"Yeah. She did. I'll call 'em Monday and tell them what we have, and what we'd like to do."

"Okay. So now we just need to sort through this, to decide what's going."

Sam takes the bracelet back, and steals Dean's beer for a quick swig. "Yep."

"Awesome." This whole day has been one huge mindfuck, and even knowing it needed to be done doesn't detract from the mindfuckery. Dean's gonna be glad when they're finished with it.

"Are we going to sleep in there?"

Dean's just taken a swallow of his beer, and he chokes and spits it out on the table at Sam's question. "What?"

"Mom and Dad's room. Are we gonna sleep in there?" Sam makes an _Ew_ face, and tosses his napkin toward Dean. "Gross."

Gross. Like it's Dean's fault? "Uh—I don't—do you want to?" Mostly he wants to ask Sam _where the hell did that come from?_

"Not really." Sam shrugs and picks up the bracelet to fiddle with again. "Just wondered."

"Maybe eventually," Dean says cautiously. "But not right now. Stuff's too—it's too soon." Privately he's not sure it won't ever stop being too soon, but that's a worry for a different night.

"Okay. Yeah." Sam rolls the bracelet around the table, then gives Dean a small smile. "Let's get this finished up."

~~~~~

Before his parents died, Dean had entertained thoughts of a career in law enforcement, or possibly as a firefighter. For one fanciful moment he'd even considered the Air Force, until he decided he wasn't that keen on being deployed thousands of miles away from his family. He wanted something that would keep him here, where his family was.

Now the only family he has is his younger brother, and Dean's been trying to decide what careers he might pursue that won't put him in the line of fire, or in potentially life-threatening situations on at least a semi-regular basis. Sure, there could be another car accident, or he could get hit by lightning, or a million other things could happen, but there's a difference between accidents and purposefully putting yourself in harm's way.

After thinking about it a lot and talking with one of the career counselors at the community college, he decides on nursing. He can do it as a two-year _or_ a four-year degree, he'll probably be able to find a job pretty much anywhere, he'll still be providing a valuable service, and he won't be nearly as likely to leave Sam completely alone as a cop or firefighting gig might.

He and Sam fall into a routine of school, homework, assorted doctor appointments, and learning their way around housework and household chores. Yeah, their folks had done a pretty good job of teaching them the basics – but it didn't take them long to figure out that being assigned chores on a weekly basis wasn't anything like the reality of keeping up a house and yard.

They get tired really fast of macaroni and cheese from a box, bologna sandwiches, and frozen chicken patties. Dean tells Sam he's happy eating pizza or take-out, but Sam gives him a scowl and buys a cookbook off Amazon.com before Dean can even blink.

"Cooking can't be that difficult," Sam tells him, when the book arrives. "It's just combining different things, and using heat – it's like chemistry."

"Whatever," he mutters, going back to his homework. "Just, when you blow up the kitchen, I get to say 'told you so'."

"I'm not going to blow up the kitchen."

He doesn't, either. He does manage to make a pretty huge mess, but the Shepherd's Pie is tasty enough Dean volunteers to clean up afterward, and makes a note to buy Sam a ruffled, frilly apron at the first chance he gets. Just because.

So Sam does most of the cooking, but Dean reads through the cookbook, too, and then starts poking around online for recipes. He decides if nothing else, he's going to learn how to make pie because Sam won't – he says Dean doesn't need to eat pie all the time, usually with a condescending little pat to Dean's belly, which is still flat and toned, thank you very much. Anyway, the point is that Dean does some experimenting on the days he doesn't have class, while Sam's at school, and it's worth all the times he had to clean up spills or burned stuff when Sam comes home one day to find Dean pulling a perfect peach pie out of the oven.

"It tastes as good as Mom's," Sam tells him quietly, after taking a couple of bites. "It's really good."

There is no higher praise Dean could receive, and he spends the rest of the afternoon and evening grinning like an idiot, feeling the warmth of that mingling with the now-familiar missing-Mom-and-Dad, soothing it a little.

 

   


  
**Epilogue**   


 

Eric's barely stopped before Sam's fumbling with the door to open it. The Impala's in the driveway, which means Dean's home, and that makes his already good mood soar a little higher.

He calls, "Thanks for the ride," over his shoulder, and wonders in passing who the little green Hyundai parked on the street belongs to.

Dean's had the night shift for the last couple of weeks, and while they've still had cuddle time, there hasn't been as much of it. Sam misses his brother. He drops his backpack on the floor beside the hall tree, and tosses his jacket in the general direction, then calls out, "Honey, I'm home," even as he's heading for the kitchen.

He stops dead in his tracks in the doorway, anything else he was about to say dying before it gets past his lips.

"Hello, Sam. It's good to see you again." Evelyn smiles politely at him.

"Evelyn. Hi." His first reaction is to back up and run away; his second is to demand what the hell she's doing here. He settles on, "Didn't expect to see you here."

"No, I don't imagine you did." She toys with the delicate gold necklace she's wearing, and Sam resolutely keeps his eyes on her face, rather than letting them drift to her cleavage, as he knows she's expecting him to do. "I hadn't heard from Dean in awhile, and wondered how he was doing, so I drove down to see him."

Not for the first time Sam wonders why Evelyn even still tries. She and Dean had a brief -- _very brief_ \-- thing back when Dean was still at UofK. But he's been gone from there for nearly two years, and yet here's Evelyn, turning up like a bad penny every time they're least expecting it.

"So, um. Where's Dean?"

"Oh, I expect he's showering and getting dressed. He was in a state of, uh, disrobe when I got here." She flashes a thousand-watt smile at him, and Sam squashes down the urge to smash his fist into those teeth _just because_. His parents raised him better than that.

"Right. Okay, I'll just, be right back."

So much for good moods. Sam backs out of the kitchen and heads for the stairs, stopping when Evelyn calls out, "You can't keep him forever, you know."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. You can't keep him forever."

"I'm not—he's my _brother_ , Evelyn."

"I know. And you should remember that."

"Uh. Sure." So, now he's confused and upset, and dammit. He's 18, he's almost done with school, he's received an _awesome_ college offer to show to Dean, and their future is just waiting for them to discover it. So of course he should've expected this.

Dean's in their room pulling on his jeans, water droplets still clinging to his shoulders. "Didn't do a very good job of drying off," Sam says, leaning in to suck a couple up. "Might mess with your oh-so-sensitive skin."

"Funny." Dean pulls him close for a quick, hard kiss, then releases Sam to go look for a shirt. "I take it you've seen our guest?"

"Oh, yeah." Sam sits down on the edge of the bed. "She told me I can't keep you forever."

"Huh?" Dean freezes in place, then shakes himself. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." Sam reaches out and hooks a finger into one of Dean's belt loops; tugs him close enough to fasten the still-undone button. "So, whatcha think? You want to trade me in for her?"

Dean laughs. "Sure, Sammy. How about, oh, when Hell freezes over?"

"Sounds good to me." He tips his head back to look at Dean. "Do you think she knows? For real."

Dean sighs and sits down beside Sam. "I've asked myself that before, and I don't…I don't know how she could. She only shows up every once in a while, and Hell, Eric is over here practically every other day—and I know _he_ doesn't know." He sounds certain, but Sam hears the question there just the same, and shakes his head.

"No, he doesn't. Like I told you before, I won't be telling anyone. It's between you and me."

"So unless she's psychic, there's no way she could know."

"Pretty much." Sam takes Dean's hand. "So make her go away, so we can talk. I have some good news to tell you. For us."

"Yeah?" Dean brightens. "What kind of good news?"

"The kind that's good, that I'm not going to tell you until she's gone. It might require some spontaneous celebrating."

"Ah. _That_ kind of news, huh?"

"Yep. So go, get rid of her." Sam makes shooing motions, and ignores Dean's eye roll.

"Not coming with me?"

"Do you really want me to?" Sam raised an eyebrow, his last meeting with Evelyn still clear in his mind.

It's obviously still clear in Dean's mind as well. "Guess not. It would suck to have the cops called. That would definitely cut down on the whole spontaneous celebrating thing."

"Yes it would. So go."

Dean gives him one more kiss, this one slow and sweet, tongue stroking and teasing until all Sam wants to do is pull him down to the bed and undress him, then fuck him until they're both too worn out to remember their names. In the end he lets go of Dean, but it's a near thing.

~~~~~

He doesn't listen in, exactly; he'd have to be downstairs to actually hear anything like words. But even from the office – formerly his bedroom – Sam can hear Evelyn's voice rising. Whatever Dean's telling her, she doesn't like it and she's letting him know it—loudly.

It culminates in the sound of the front door slamming, followed by tires squealing just a bit, and Sam winces. It's quiet for a few minutes, and then Sam hears Dean's footsteps as he comes up the stairs.

"She's gone," is all he says, throwing himself into his desk chair. "Hopefully for good."

"Probably. She can't drop in to visit if she doesn't know where we're living, can she?" Sam raises an eyebrow and gives Dean a smile. Dean returns it, but rolls his eyes at Sam.

"We're not going into hiding over her, dude."

Now he rolls his eyes. For someone who's pretty damn smart, his brother can be so obtuse at times that it drives Sam nuts. "No, idiot. We're going to move because I got awarded a full scholarship—" He pauses, feeling the same pride well up that he'd felt earlier when opening the letter. "Based entirely on academic merit."

"You did?" Dean busts out a grin. "Way to go, Sammy, you brainiac!" Dean noogies him, then pulls him in for a hug. "Where to?"

"Our first choice. Also, _ow_." Noogies hurt, and now his whole scalp is burning.

"Wuss." Dean drops a quick kiss onto Sam's head. "There, all better. So--Stanford? Seriously?"

"Yup. California, here we come." Sam smiles. "As long as you're sure you want to go west? I can go to school anywhere, Dean. It doesn't have to be there."

"Better to go where it's being paid for by someone else." Dean scoots his chair the four feet over to Sam's, and pulls him in for a kiss. "Right?"

"Sounds like sound financial sense to me," Sam breathes, biting down on Dean's lower lip. He tastes blood, and sucks hard.

"Ow—no biting that hard, Jesus. Don't we feed you enough?" But Dean's grinning when he pulls away, and he brings a hand up to rub his thumb across lip. "Damn, you drew blood."

"Mmm." Sam kisses him again, lapping at the tiny bit of blood still oozing up.

They jostle and push each other out of the office and across the hall to their bedroom, trading kisses in between, with Sam getting as many nips and bites in as possible.

"Man, whatever happened to that sweet, innocent kid who seduced me?" Dean raises his arms up for Sam to pull his shirt up and over his head. Sam laughs as he tosses it aside.

"He grew up."

"Boy, did he ever." Dean's pretty much leering at him, and Sam pulls his own shirt up and off, enjoying Dean's eyes on him.

He does a little shimmy as he's undoing his belt and the button of his jeans, and Dean's leering turns into hot eyes scorching up and down the length of Sam's body. "Like what you see?"

"Oh, yeah." Dean's shoving his own jeans down, and Sam kicks at his, then drops to his knees. Dean's half-hard, cock thickening, plumping up, and Sam helps it along with licks and kisses before nuzzling into Dean, breathing in his scent, clean and soapy, just a tang of sweat and natural body odor. He sucks a mark into Dean's upper thigh, and smiles when Dean swears. "I'm not the first course on a dinner buffet, Sam."

"Wanna bet?" Sam bites again, teeth pinching the tender, thin skin of Dean's inner thigh. His brother yelps and smacks at his head.

"If you wanna blow me, then blow me. But quit biting."

Yeah, that's never gonna happen. But Sam laps at the bites, then shifts to lick at Dean's balls, teasing his tongue over the creased skin until Dean winds his fingers into Sam's hair and tugs gently.

"Bed," he says hoarsely, and Sam moves just enough for Dean to back up until he can sit on the bed. He spreads his legs wide and Sam leans back in, sucking on first one ball, then the other, drawing them gently into his mouth and tonguing them to feel them shifting inside Dean's sac. He follows the seam with his tongue, up to the base of Dean's dick, then licks upward, following the now-throbbing vein.

He swipes his tongue over the head, gathering the droplets of pre-come there, then tips his head back. "Wanna fuck me?"

"Jesus." Dean's dick throbs against Sam's cheek. "Yes. Yeah. C'mon up here."

Sam kisses his way up his brother's body and settles over him, rolling his hips downward so their dicks rub against each other. Over and over, his dick leaking trails of moisture over Dean's balls and dick; Dean's pressing back against his. Dean has lube ready, fingers cool and slick when they slide up between Sam's asscheeks. He rubs and teases Sam's hole, pressing, but not pushing in, until Sam's shivering and rocking backward, trying to get those fingers inside him. The first breach makes him groan out loud, Dean's fingers opening him, stretching him.

"Now," Sam whispers, trying to twist down and get the fingers deeper, harder, faster. "Come on, man, do it." He drags himself forward, backward, hungry for as much skin-on-skin as he can get.

"Impatient little bitch." But Dean's slicking up his cock, holding himself steady for Sam to lower down onto.

It feels fucking awesome to slide down, his body opening, taking Dean inside. The burn of stretching – because two fingers aren't the same as a dick – ripples through him, giving him goosebumps. Sam rocks into it, lazy at first, his own arousal at a slow burn right now. Dean stares up at him, eyes dark, hot, promising. The kind of promises Sam knows he'll keep. He rocks faster, and Dean grunts, pushing up to meet him, before settling his hands on Sam's hips to balance him.

"Jack yourself?" Dean grunts the words, but Sam shakes his head.

"Gonna fuck you after you've come."

He feels the hard throb deep inside him; feels Dean shudder beneath him. Oh, yeah. Dean likes that idea.

The tempo changes, Dean fucking up into Sam, harder, faster, and it's an effort _not_ to come, with so much hard heat pounding into him, nailing his prostate over and over. Sam's grabbing for his dick to hold it, hold back coming, and then Dean's fingers are biting into his hips as he strains up, up, up into Sam. He comes with a long, low groan, and Sam feels each pulse, squeezes down around him, milking him.

Dean's barely caught his breath before Sam's pulling off and rolling him, grabbing for the lube. He slicks his dick and thrusts forward, Dean jerking beneath him, opening as Sam sheathes himself.

" _God_ ," Dean growls, and then he's clenching down around Sam, and that's enough to make the top of Sam's head feel like it's coming off. He backs up and pulls Dean up onto his knees, chest still down against the bed, and fucks into him hard and fast. No lingering, no finesse, Sam's too wound up now for that. The whole day's been one long adrenaline-filled ride, and Sam needs to let go and let it go.

His orgasm starts as an tingling and spreads out, gaining heat and momentum as it spirals through him and ripples down along his nerve endings. He thrusts hard and fast, fucking until it's too much, friction against hyper-sensitive skin. He holds there, flush up against Dean, rocking forward just a little as he empties into him.

They sink down to the bed and Sam rolls them, still joined, so he's spooning Dean, and twines their fingers together. Coming down is slow and easy, bodies relaxing together. Dean's already half-asleep, his breathing slow and deep, and Sam knows he's not far behind. He presses gentle kisses to Dean's shoulder and neck and breathes in the rich sweat-sex smell. His breaths get longer and slower, and he falls asleep curled in on Dean, their arms and legs tangled together.

~~~~~

"So we have, what, about three months to sell the house?" Dean sets the table while Sam dishes up the chili. He hands the bowls off, and reaches up into the cupboard for the tortilla chips.

"Yeah, about. But we don't have to sell it—we could try renting it out."

Dean shakes his head. "I think that would be way more headache than it'd be worth."

"Maybe. Probably." Sam concedes with a nod. "Yeah, because then we'd have to have a property management agent and all that crap. You don't happen to know anyone at work who might want to buy a house, do you?"

Dean sprinkles cheese on his chili, than passes it to Sam. "Not offhand, but I could post a notice on the hospital bulletin board."

"That's a good idea." Sam looks around the kitchen. "We're gonna have to sort through everything again."

"At least this time, there's no one else's underwear involved." Dean takes a long swallow of his beer and sticks his tongue out when Sam laughs.

"We need to think seriously about downsizing, though." Sam waves his hand to indicate the house in general. "We have got a whole bunch of crap – and a lot of it is stuff we won't even need if we get an apartment."

"Like?"

"Well, the lawnmower, to start with."

"Okay, point." Dean nods. "So, not only sorting and cleaning out the house, but the shed and garage, too."

"Yeah. And we'll have to decide what to do about the car—"

"We'll be driving her to California," Dean says, and there's something in his voice that warns Sam to just back down from that one.

"Right. Well, we could tow it, if we get a U-Haul."

"We're gonna have go out there and find a place before September." Dean looks thoughtful. "We could roadtrip for your graduation."

"Or we could fly, and be there and back in a weekend. You still have to work, you know."

"Fly? Nah. I can take time off. It'd be fun. Hotels, the open road, just you and me—"

"Dean."

"I don't like to fly. You know that."

"You've been on an airplane once."

"And I hated every minute of it."

"Well, man up, because if we're going to sort through everything in the house and garage, have a yard sale, pack and drive to California – all while you're still working – then we don't have time to take a roadtrip right now. We fly out, spend a weekend, fly back. Done."

Dean stares at him, then smiles slowly. "Wow. When did you get to be so bossy?"

Sam snorts. "You say bossy, I say organized."

"I'm thinking 'controlling', maybe."

"Organized. So, when do you want to fly out?"

"Half past never—but in lieu of that, we could go the weekend after graduation. I'm already off – they posted the schedule yesterday – so we wouldn't have to worry about that."

Sam nods. "I'll make our reservations for that weekend, then. Are you off that Friday or Monday? We could make it a long weekend. Check out the campus and the area."

"Both, I think, but I'll double check. If I'm not, I can probably find someone to take my shift. I don't know too many nurses that turn down OT."

"So we're really going to do this." Sam feels an almost overwhelming sense of excitement building in him. New place to live, new school, new _life_. Just him and Dean, living somewhere they don't have to hide. Where they don't have to keep a second bedroom made up for show.

"It kind of sounds like we are."

"And you're sure." It's been a concern of Sam's almost since the first time he kissed Dean, that he suggests something and his brother does it out of some sense of obligation. He knows Dean worried – probably still does, actually – that he was pressuring Sam, but Sam knows if anyone's doing any pressuring, even unintentionally, it's him pressuring Dean.

"I'm absolutely positive." Dean tips his beer bottle in Sam's direction. "I knew we weren't going to stay here forever, Sammy. We've just been in a holding pattern so you could finish up high school."

And that's only been about a year and a half. Maybe a little bit longer. It's hard to believe so much has happened in such a short time. There are days Sam feels like he's decades older than he is. There were a lot of days for a while when he felt centuries old, and not in a good, wise-all-knowing sort of way, just in a shit-how-much-more-can-go-wrong sort of way.

"You're gonna be giving up everything," Sam says. Dean loves his job, and he's good at it. He might laugh at the notion, but he's definitely a care-taker, someone who was born to help people.

"Sam. I'm a nurse. I have experience as an ER nurse. I'll probably be able to find a job before you, no matter how many degrees you might eventually hold. I can be a nurse anywhere—and where I want to be is wherever you are, okay? So would you please get your head out of your ass, accept that I'm _fine_ with this – other than the flying part – and deal, so we can move ahead?"

"Wow. And with a speech like that, who says romance is dead?" Sam nods. "Okay. So, paraphrasing, you and me, wherever, forever."

"You're gonna want to get matching rings, aren't you?" Dean grumbles as he gets up to dish up more chili. "I can see it now. You're gonna have me jewelry shopping the minute we get out there."

Sam just smiles at him.

~fin~

 

  


**Author's Note:**

> I am so happy to be done and be posting that I feel kind of giddy right now *g* I also can't believe that this was my fourth year (!!) doing the Big Bang challenge.
> 
> Since getting into this fandom, I've been fascinated with the idea of Sam and Dean as SamnDean if they weren't raised as hunters. Would the dynamic we see on the show carry through if they were just ordinary kids, raised by ordinary, non-hunting, parents? I think it could -- particularly if there's a catalyst of some sort, a major trauma that could send the boys turning to each other for comfort, affection, and love. (And hey, at least John and Mary get to die a pretty ordinary way, no burning on a ceiling or selling a soul/going to Hell -- that's gotta count for something, right?)
> 
> I tried to stay true to the characters we see on the show. Hopefully I was successful. :)
> 
> Now for the thank-yous!
> 
> First off, to Vamptastica for the _fabulous_ art she produced for my story. And! Not only is it fabulous, but she did it as a pinch-hitter, so she had less time than she would have otherwise, which makes it that much more astounding. She made the main picture, and some headers, some dividers, and some icons. If you missed the link somehow, her art post is [here](http://users.livejournal.com/_vamptastica_/79158.html). Go tell her what a fantastic job she did!
> 
> Next up, many hugs and thanks to Arliss, Raynedanser and Britomart_is for their unending, tireless support and betaing. I seriously couldn't have done this story without them.
> 
> And finally, thank yous to Wendy and Thehighwaywoman for doing such an awesome job of running this whole shebang.
> 
> I hope you all have enjoyed the story :)


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